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POEMS 


POEMS 


ROSE    TERRY 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR    AND    FIKL.DS. 

Jl  1)1  <  V  I, XI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 

TICKNOR  AND  FIELDS, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 
Massachusetts. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
STEREOTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BV  H.  O.  HOOGHTOX. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 

TRAILING   ARBUTUS, 11 

ONCE    BEFORE,  13 

BEYOND, 15 

"IT   IS    MORE    BLESSED," 16 

A    STORY, 18 

BLUE-BEARD'S  CLOSET, 20 

THE  LESSON, 23 

FRATERNITE, 25 

THE  TWO  VILLAGES, 27 

WOOD  WORSHIP, 29 

A  NEW  VOICE, 31 

A  CHILD'S  WISH, 34 

FALL, 36 

BELL-SONGS.      NO.    1, 38 

BELL-SONGS.      NO.    2, 40 

BELL-SONGS.      NO.    3, 42 

THE   ICONOCLAST, 44 

"ALL  THY  WORKS   PRAISE   THEE,"  .  .  46 

A   COMPLAINT, 48 

THERE, 51 


2228513 


8  CONTENTS. 

THE   DKSIRE   OF   THE   MOTH, 53 

8EMELE,     .........  55 

RECORDARE, 57 

THE    RIVER, 59 

SONG, 61 

EN   ESPAGNE, 62 

LA    COQUETTE, 64 

OCTOBER, 66 

LOSS   AND   GAIN, 68 

"  NON    KIT," 70 

SEPTEMBER, 72 

THE    LOST   ANCHOR, 74 

THEN, 76 

FANTASIA,           .                      78 

SONG, 80 

BIRD  MUSIC,     ........        82 

FASTRADA'S  RING, 8-1 

TRUTHS, 86 

MY   RED    CARNATION, 88 

LISE, '      ....  90 

DEPARTING, ..92 

A   STATUE, .  94 

A   PICTURE, 96 

ROSEMARY,         ........  98 

WOOD    LAUREL, .100 

NEMESIS, 102 

"  CREDE    TANTUM," 104 

THE   FISHING   SONG, 106 

JULY   XXIV.,  ...  .    108 


CONTENTS. 

HESPER, 110 

REVE    DTI   MIDI, 112 

TWILIGHT, 114 

DAISIES, 116 

CHAMOMILE, 119 

RIGHTS,    ".........    121 

"  YOURS    EVER," 123 

PRAYER, 125 

VI   ET   ARMIS, 127 

PSYCHE    TO    EROS, 129 

INDOLENCE, 130 

NOCTURN,    I., 132 

NOCTURN,    II., 134 

THE    SUTTEE,  . 136 

IMPLORA    PACE,  .  .  .  .  .  .  .138 

NEW   MOON, 140 

DECEMBER   XXXI., 142 

LOTOS-LAND, 144 

THE    LAST   REVOLUTION, 146 

IN    THE   HOSPITAL, 148 

A   ROSARY, 150 

GRAY, 152 

AT    LAST, 154 

MIDNIGHT,     .  . 156 

"CHE    SARA    SARA," 159 

GONE, 161 

CAIN, 163 

EBB   AND    FLOW, 165 

MAY,  166 


10  CONTENTS. 

NON   SEQUITUR, 168 

HERE, .  .  .170 

MONOTROPA, 172 

EXOGENESIS, 174 

CAPTIVE, 176 

DOUBT, 178 

SAMSON  AGONISTES, 180 

"THE   HARVEST   IS   PAST," 182 

BALLADS. 

ROSALIND, 185 

FREMONT'S  RIDE, 188 

BASILE  RENAUD, 192 

THE  DEATH  OF  TANKERFIELD,       .        .        .        .196 

WHITE  AND  RED, 202 

AFTER  THE  CAMANCHES, 204 

LOST  ON  THE  PRAIRIE, 206 

DONE   FOR, 208 

BEE-HUNTING, 210 

TRANSLATIONS. 

THE   MOURNING   DOVE, 215 

POUR   ELISE   FRISELL, 218 

LA   FLEUR   ET   LE   PAPILLON, 219 

LE   JUIF    ERRANT, 221 

MAUDIT   PRINTEMPS, 225 

LA    8YLPHIDE, 227 

LA    MOUCHE, •  230 


POEMS. 


TRAILING   ARBUTUS. 

DARLINGS  of  the  forest ! 

Blossoming  alone 
When  Earth's  grief  is  sorest 

For  her  jewels  gone  — 

Ere  the  last  snow-drift  melts,  your  tender  buds  have 
blown. 

Tinged  with  color  faintly, 

Like  the  morning  sky, 
Or  more  pale  and  saintly, 

Wrapped  in  leaves  ye  lie, 
Even  as  children  sleep  in  faith's  simplicity. 

There  the  wild  wood-robin 

Hymns  your  solitude, 
And  the  rain  comes  sobbing 

Through  the  budding  wood, 

While   the   low   south   wind   sighs,   but  dare   not   be 
more   rude. 


12  TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

Were  your  pure  lips  fashioned 

Out  of  air  and  dew: 
Starlight  unimpassioned, 

Dawn's  most  tender  hue  — 

And  scented  by  the  woods  that  gathered   sweets  for 
you? 

Fairest  and  most  lonely, 
From  the  world  apart, 
Made  for  beauty  only, 

Veiled  from  Nature's  heart, 

With  such  unconscious  grace  as  makes  the  dream  of 
Art! 

Were  not  mortal  sorrow 

An  immortal  shade, 
Then  woujd  I  to-morrow 

Such  a  flower  be  made, 

And  live  in  the  dear  woods  where  my  lost  childhood 
played. 


ONCE  BEFORE. 

SOLE  she  sat  beside  her  window, 
Hearing  only  rain-drops  pour, 
Looking  only  at  the  shore, 

"When,  outside  the  little  casement, 

Weeping  in  a  feigned  abasement, 
Love  stood  knocking  — 

Knocking  at  her  bolted  door. 

Slow  she  swung  the  little  casement 
Where  the  Autumn  roses  glowed, 
Sweet  and  sad  her  deep  eyes  showed  ; 

And  her  voice,  in  gentlest  measure, 

Said  aloud  —  "  Nor  Love,  nor  Pleasure 
Can  come  in  here  any  more  — 

Never,  any  more  ! " 

"  But  I  am  not  Love  nor  Pleasure  — 

I  am  but  an  orphan  baby ; 

Lost,  my  mother  is,  or  maybe 
Dead  she  lies,  while  I  am  weeping," 


14  ONCE  BEFORE. 

Sobbed  the  child,  his  soft  lie  creeping 

Softly  through  the  bolted  door  — 
Through  the  maiden's  door. 

Low  phe  said,  in  accents  lonely: 
"  Once  I  let  him  in  before, 
Once  I  opened  wide  my  door. 

Ever  since  my  life  is  dreary, 

All  my  prayers  are  vague  and  weary  ; 
Once  I  let  him  in  before, 

Now  I'll  double-lock  the  door!" 

In  the  rain  he  stands  imploring; 
Tears  and  kisses  storm  the  door, 
Where  she  let  him  in  before. 

Will  she  never  know  repenting? 

Will  she  ever,  late  relenting, 
Let  him  in,  as  once  before  ? 

Will  she  double-lock  the  door  ? 


BEYOND. 

THE  stranger  wandering  in  the  Switzer's  land, 
Before  its  awful  mountain  tops  afraid, — 

Who  yet,  with  patient  toil,  hath  gained  his  stand, 
On  the  bare  summit  where  all  life  is  stayed, 

Sees  far,  far  down,  beneath  his  blood-dimmed  eyes, 
Another  country,  golden  to  the  shore, 

Where  a  new  passion  and  new  hopes  arise, 
Where  Southern  blooms  unfold  forevermore. 

And  I,  lone  sitting  by  the  twilight  blaze, 
Think  of  another  wanderer  in  the  snows, 

And  on  more  perilous  mountain-tops  I  gaze, 
Than  ever  frowned  above  the  vine  and  rose. 

Yet  courage,  soul !  nor  hold  thy  strength  in  vain, 
In  hope  o'ercome  the  pteeps  God  set  for  thee  ; 

For  past  the  Alpine  summits  of  great  pain, 
Lieth  thine  Italy. 


"IT  IS  MORE    BLESSED." 

GIVE!  as  the  morning  that  flows  out  of  heaven; 
Give  !  as  the  waves  when  their  channel  is  riven ; 
Give !  as  the  free  air  and  sunshine  are  given ; 

Lavishly,  utterly,  carelessly  give. 
Not  the  waste  drops  of  thy  cup  overflowing, 
Not  the  faint  sparks  of  thy  hearth  ever  glowing, 
Not  a  pale  bud  from  the  June  rose's  blowing; 

Give  as  He  gave  thee,  who  gave  thee  to  live. 

Pour  out  thy  love  like  the  rush  of  a  river 

Wasting  its  waters,  forever  and  ever, 

Through  the  burnt  sands  that  reward  not  the  giver  ; 

Silent  or  songful,  thou  nearest  the  sea. 
Scatter  thy  life  as  the  Summer  shower's  pouring ! 
What  if  no  bird  through  the  pearl-rain  is  soaring? 
What  if  no  blossom  looks  upward  adoring  ? 

Look  to  the  life  that  was  lavished  for  thee ! 

Give,  though  thy  heart  may  be  wasted  and  weary, 
Laid  on  an  altar  all  ashen  and  dreary; 


"IT  IS   MORE    BLESSED."  17 

Though  from  its  pulses  a  faint  miserere 
Beats  to  thy  soul  the  sad  presage  of  fate, 

Bind  it  with  cords  of  unshrinking  devotion ; 

Smile  at  the  song  of  its  restless  emotion; 

'Tis  the  stern  hymn  of  eternity's  ocean ; 
HearJ  and  in  silence  thy  future  await. 

So  the  wild  wind  strews  its  perfumed  caresses, 
Evil  and  thankless  the  desert  it  hlesses, 
Bitter  the  wave  that  its  soft  pinion  presses, 

Never  it  ceaseth  to  whisper  and  sing. 
What  if  the  hard  heart  give  thorns  for  thy  roses  ? 
What  if  on  rocks  thy  tired  bosom  reposes  ? 
Sweetest  is  music  with  minor-keyed  closes, 

Fairest  the  vines  that  on  ruin  will  cling. 

Almost  the  day  of  thy  giving  is  over ; 

Ere  from  the  grass  dies  the  bee-haunted  clover, 

Thou  wilt  have  vanished  from  friend  and  from  lover. 

What  shall  thy  longing  avail  in  the  grave  ? 
Give  as  the  heart  gives  whose  fetters  are  breaking, 
Life,  love,  and  hope,  all  thy  dreams  and  thy  waking. 
Soon,  heaven's  river  thy  soul-fever  slaking, 

Thou  shalt  know  God  and  the  gift  that  he  gave. 


A  STORY. 

IN  a  gleam  of  sunshine  a  gentian  stood, 

Dreaming  her  life  away, 
While  the  leaves  danced  merrily  through  the  wood, 

And  rode  on  the  wind  for  play. 

She  stood  in  the  light  and  looked  at  the  sky, 

Till  her  leaves  were  as  fair  a  blue; 
But  she  shut  her  heart  from  the  butterfly 

And  the  coaxing  drops  of  dew. 

Dreaming  and  sunning  that  autumn  noon, 

She  stayed  the  idlest  bee 
That  ever  lingered  to  hear  the  tune 

Of  the  wind  in  a  rustling  tree. 

He  had  a  golden  cuirass  on, 

And  a  surcoat  black  as  night, 
And  he  wandered  ever  from  shade  to  sun, 

Seeking  his  own  delight 


A  STORY.  19 

Now  were  the  blossoms  of  Summer  fled, 
And  the  bumble-bee  felt  the  frost; 

He  knew  that  the  asters  all  lay  dead, 
And  the  honey-vine  cups  were  lost. 

So -he  poised  and  fluttered  above  the  flower, 

And  tried  his  tenderest  arts, 
With  whispers  and  kisses,  a  weary  hour, 

Till  he  opened  its  heart  of  hearts. 

Not  for  love  of  the  gentian  blue, 

But  for  his  own  wild  will ; 
All  he  wanted  was  honey-dew, 

And  there  he  drank  his  fill. 

No  more  dreaming  in  sun  or  shade ! 

It  never  could  close  again  ! 
The  gentian  withered,  alone,  dismayed ; 

The  bee  flew  over  the  plain. 


BLUE-BEARD'S   CLOSET. 

FASTEN  the  chamber! 

Hide  the  red  key ; 

Cover  the  portal, 

That  eyes  may  not  see. 

Get  thee  to  market, 

To  wedding  and  prayer ; 

Labor  or  revel, 

The  chamber  is  there! 

In  comes  a  stranger  — 
"  Thy  pictures  how  fine, 
Titian  or  Guido, 
Whose  is  the  sign  ?  " 
Looks  he  behind  them  ? 
Ah  !  have  a  care  ! 
<k  Here  is  a  finer." 
The  chamber  is  there! 

Fair  spreads  the  banquet, 
Rich  the  array  ; 


BLUE-BEARD'S  CLOSET.  21 

See  the  bright  torches 
Mimicking  day  ; 
When  harp  and  viol 
Thrill  the  soft  air, 
Comes  a  light  whisper: 
The  chamber  is  there! 

Marble  and  painting, 
Jasper  and  gold, 
Purple  from  Tyrus, 
Fold  upon  fold, 
Blossoms  and  jewels, 
Thy  palace  prepare : 
Pale  grows  the  monarch ; 
The  chamber  is  there! 

Once  it  was  open 
As  shore  to  the  sea ; 
White  were  the  turrets, 
Goodly  to  see; 
All  through  the  casements 
Flowed  the  sweet  air; 
Now  it  is   darkness  ; 
The  chamber  is  there! 

Silence  and  horror 
Brood  on  the  walls  ; 


22  BLUE-BEARD'S   CLOSET. 

Through  every  crevice 
A  little  voice  calls: 
"  Quicken,  mad  footsteps, 
On  pavement  and  stair; 
Look  not  behind  thee, 
The  chamber  is  there !  " 

Out  of  the  gateway, 
Through  the  wide  world, 
Into  the  tempest 
Beaten  and  hurled, 
Vain  is  thy  wandering, 
Sure  thy  despair, 
Flying  or  staying, 
The  chamber  is  there! 


THE  LESSON. 

FLUTTER  thy  new  wings  lightly, 

Poor,  fearful  little  bird ! 
Nor  grasp  thy  bough  so  tightly; 

Hast  thou  not  heard 

That  flood  of  loving  song  wherewith  the   leaves   are 
stirred  ? 

Still  poised:   afraid  of  flying! 

What  softer  mother-call, 
Through  the  warm  sunshine  crying, 

Could  woo  thee  not  to  fall? 

Doth  not  its  sweetness  say,  —  "  Dear  child,   fear  not 
at  all?" 

Now  the  cool  wind  shall  aid  thee ; 
Spread  thy  new  wings  and  fly ! 
The  master-hand  that  made  thee, 
Gave  heart  and  wings  to  try. 
The  worst  fate  that  befalls  can  only  be  to  die. 


24  THE  LESSON. 

Ah!  from  the  light  branch  springing, 

My  little  darling  flies, 
And  that  low,  tender  singing 

In  tenderer  silence  dies, 

While  with    adventurous    plume    her    nestling    tempts 
the  skies. 

His  new-discovered  pinions 

Shall  bear  thy  bird  away, 
Into  those  far  dominions, 

Beyond  the  dawning  day, 
And  thou,  poor  mother-heart,  in  solitude  shalt  stay. 

Yet  some  most  weary  proving 

Taught  him  to  spread  the  wing, 
And  some  most  lonely  loving 

Taught  thee  such  notes  to  sing. 

God   keep    both   song   and   strength    to  decorate  His 
Spring ! 


FRATERNITY. 

CIUESUS,  gilt  martyr  of  a  bank, 

Barred  round  with  ingots  yellow, 
The  poet  whom  you  do  not  thank, 

Is  not  a  "  wretched  fellow  "  ! 
The  garret  of  his  dreaming  sleep 

Is  tapestried  with  splendor, 
Whose  glitter  makes  no  angels  weep ; 

His  heart  is  true  and  tender. 

Poet,  the  Dives  you  despise 

Has  pleasure  in  his  money ! 
Dear  butterfly,  some  beauty  lies 

To  bees  in  making  honey ! 
The  gold  and  jewels  of  your  flowers 

He  copies  in  his  treasure ; 
Must  all  your  brother's  happy  hours 

Be  meted  with  your  measure? 

Fair  woman,  whose  averted  eyes 

Cast  scorn  on  shame's  poor  daughter, 


26  FRATERNITY. 

The  soul  whose  kindred  yours  denies 

Was  limpid  once  as  water ! 
Who  kept  thee  from  the  precipice, 

Where  sin  with  love-lips  kissed  her  ? 
Through  Him  who  granted  Mary's  peace, 

Pray  for  thy  wretched  sister! 

And  thou,  on  earth  most  desolate, 

Blame  not  the  passer  by  thee, 
Whose  veiled  eyes  droop  not  out  of  hate, 

Whose  thoughts  no  love  deny  thee! 
If  custom-kept,  she  walks  apart, 

Her  pity  grows  the  stronger; 
And  louder  echo  through  her  heart 

His  words,  -=— "  Go,  sin  no  longer." 

If  there  are  mountains  in  the  world, 

Are  there  not  also  valleys  ! 
Where  Love's  blue  standard  swings  unfurled, 

There  every  true  heart  rallies. 
Ranked  in  one  hope,  the  difference  dies 

That  keeps  us  from  each  other, 
And  underneath  millennial  skies, 

Each  man  becomes  a  brother. 


THE  TWO  VILLAGES. 

OVER  the  river,  on  the  hill, 
Lieth  a  village  white  and  still ; 
All  around  it  the  forest-trees 
Shiver  and  whisper  in  the  breeze  ; 
Over  it  sailing  shadows  go 
Of  soaring  hawk  and  screaming  crow, 
And  mountain  grasses,  low  and  sweet, 
Grow  in  the  middle  of  every  street. 

Over  the  river,  under  the  hill, 
Another  village  lieth  still ; 
There  I  see  in  the  cloudy  night 
Twinkling  stars  of  household  light, 
Fires  that  gleam  from  the  smithy's  door, 
Mists  that  curl  on  the  river-shore  ; 
And  in  the  roads  no  grasses  grow, 
For  the  wheels  that  hasten  to  and  fro. 

In  that  village  on  the  hill 

Never  is  sound  of  smithy  or  mill ; 


28  THE   TWO  VILLAGES. 

The  houses  are  thatched  with  grass  and  flowers ; 

Never  a  clock  to  toll  the  hours ; 

The  marble  doors  are  always  shut, 

You  cannot  enter  in  hall  or  hut; 

All  the  villagers  lie  asleep  ; 

Never  a  grain  to  sow  or  reap ; 

Never  in  dreams  to  moan  or  sigh ; 

Silent  and  idle  and  low  they  lie. 

In  that  village  under  the  hill, 
When  the  night  is  starry  and  still, 
Many  a  weary  soul  in  prayer 
Looks  to  the  other  village  there, 
And  weeping  and  sighing,  longs  to  go 
Up  to  that  home  from  this  below  ; 
Longs  to  sleep  in  the  forest  wild, 
Whither  have  vanished  wife  and  child, 
And  heareth,  praying,  this  answer  fall : 
"Patience!  that  village  shall  hold  ye  all!" 


WOOD  WORSHIP. 

HERE,  in  the  silent  forest  solitudes, 

Deep  in  the  quiet  of  these  lonely  shades, 

The  angelic  peace  of  heaven  forever  broods, 
And  His  own  presence  fills  the  solemn  glades. 

Cease,  my  weak  soul,  the  courts  of  men  to  tread, 
Leave  the  tumultuous  heavings  of  thy  kind, 

And,  by  the  soul  of  grateful  nature  led, 

Seek  the  still  woods  and  there  thy  Sabbath  find. 

Shall  worship  only  live  in  pillared  domes,  — 
The  organ's  pealing  notes  sole  anthems  raise,  — 

While  every  wind  that  through  the  forest  roams, 
Draws    from    its    whispering    boughs    a    chant    of 
praise  ? 

Here  the  thick  leaves  that  scent  the  tremulous  air 
Let  the  bright  sunshine  pass  with  softened  light, 

And  lips  unwonted  breathe  instinctive  prayer, 
In  these  cool  arches  filled  with  verdurous  night. 


30  WOOD  WORSHIP. 

There  needs  no  bending  knee,  no  costly  shrine, 
No  fluctuant  crowd  to  hail  divinity ; 

Here  the  heart  kneels,  and  owns  the  love  divine, 
That  made  for  man  the  earth  so  fair  and  free. 

Dear  is  the  choral  hymn,  the  murmuring  sound 
Of  mutual  prayer,  and  words  of  holy  power ; 

But  give  to  me  the  forest's  awe  profound, 
JEolian  hymns,  and  sermons  from  a  flower! 


A  NEW   VOICE. 

THE  south-wind  blows  a  wakeful  blast, 
The  hot  noon  sunshine  beams  at  last, 
And  something  says,  — "  the  past  is  past." 

Come,  crocus,  from  the  trodden  clay ! 
Forgotten  there  for  many  a  day, 
Put  on  thy  shining,  gold  array. 

There  is  no  life  for  death  and  pain ; 
There  is  a  new  life  for  the  brain 
That  hears  the  whispers  of  the  rain. 

Dream,  crocus,  in  thy  bed  of  mould ; 
Feel  dimly  for  thy  crown  of  gold! 
Thy  fairy-tale  shall  yet  be  told. 

What  if  thy  lips  are  cold  with  fear, 

Thy  white  lids  blanched  with  many  a  tear? 

Awake!  an  echo  wandereth  here. 


32  A  NEW  VOICE. 

Awake,  awake  !  I  hear  those  calls, 
Soft  as  the  desert  dew  that  falls 
To  stir  the  acacia's  yellow  balls. 

Love,  there  is  love !     For  thee  too,  Spring 
Shall  a  new  promise-anthem  bring ; 
Thou  art  not  a  forgotten  thing. 

The  shadow  of  thy  bridal  veil, 
The  anguish  of  the  nightingale, 
Heaven's  passion-fever,  makes  thee  pale  ; 

Though  not  about  thy  blue-veined  brows 
They  weave  Sicilian  orange-boughs; 
For  thine  are  all  immortal  vows. 

The  Spirit,  sun-winged  and  divine, 
That  fills  the  earth-veins  full  of  wine, 
And  shoots  to  heaven  the  bacchant  vine,  — 

The  Spirit  of  all  growth  and  power, 
Whose  breath  informs  the  sleeping  flower, 
And  speeds  the  Spring's  triumphant  hour,  — 

Creative,  jubilant,  serene, 

Wearing  to  man  a  various  mien, 

Yet  true  as  midnight's  crescent  queen, — 


A  NEW  VOICE.  33 

Unknown  of  men,  yet  known  to  thee, — 
Beyond  a  dim  and  dawn-lit  sea, 
That  living  Spirit  stays  for  thee. 

Arise,  arise!  thy  wings  begin 

To  stir  their  slumberous  plumes  within: 

Hark!  —  hear'st  the  bride-song  stealing  in? 


A   CHILD'S  WISH. 

"BE  my  fairy,  mother, 

Give  me  a  wish  a  day ; 
Something,  as  well  in  sunshine 

As  when  the  rain-drops  play." 

"  And  if  I  were  a  fairy, 

With  but  one  wish  to  spare, 

What  should  I  give  thee,  darling, 
To  quiet  thine  earnest  prayer?" 

"  I'd  like  a  little  brook,  mother, 

All  for  my  very  own, 
To  laugh  all  day  among  the  trees, 

And  shine  on  the  mossy  stone  ; 

"To  run  right  under  the  window, 
And  sing  me  fast  asleep,        ^   . 

With  soft  steps  and  a  tender  sound, 
Over  the  grass  to  creep. 


A  CHILD'S  WISH.  35 

"Make  it  run  down  the  hill,  mother, 

With  a  leap  like  a  tinkling  bell, 
So  fast  I  never  can  catch  the  leaf 
-  That  into  its  fountain  fell. 

"Make  it  as  wild  as  a  frightened  bird, 

As  crazy  as  a  bee, 
And  a  noise  like  the  baby's  funny  laugh ; 

That's  the  brook  for  me!" 


FALL. 

I  HEARD  a  tree  to  its  sole  self  complain, 
Amid  whose  robes  of  rust  and  scarlet  stain 
The  solemn  sunshine  poured  its  golden  rain. 

Strange   as   the   mournful   sounds   that   steal   through 

sleep, 

As  if  a  mist  should  strive  in  dews  to  weep, 
The  low,  sad  cadence  past  my  sense  did  creep. 

"  Ah !   little,  tender,  dancing  leaves,  that  first 
Out  of  my  sere  and  wintry  branches  burst, 
With  mildest  showers  and  April  sunshine  nurst ; 

"More  verdant  garlands,  fresh  with  life  and   June, 
Wherein  the  light  winds  played  a  fairy  tune, 
And  set  them  glittering  to  the  quiet  moon  ; 

"  Then,    in    their    prime,    the    thick,    green    summer 

leaves, 

Lost  in  whose  rustling  depth  the  cricket  grieves, 
Or  the  quaint  spider  radiant  tracery  weaves ; 


FALL.  37 

"  Swift  ye  forsake,  slow  fluttering  to  the  ground, 
These  desolate  boughs  no  more  with  glory  crowned, 
Where  every  rain  may  breathe  its  sighing  sound. 

"  One,  and  another,  and  another  yet ; 
No  time  for  grief  to  ripen  to  regret ! 
Full  on  my  brow  stands  the  sharp  coronet 

"  Did  the  cold  terror,  curdling  at  my  heart, 
Strike  sudden  death,  and  force  your  clasp  apart, 
I  too  were  all  too  chill  to  feel  ye  part. 

"  But  warm  and  fierce  the  vital  torrent  flows, 
As  keener  thorns  surround  the  brightest  rose, 
Death's  bitterest  draught  life's  ardor  only  knows." 


BELL-SONGS.    No.  1. 

"  Funera  plango." 

TOLL,  toll,  toll !   soar,  thou  passing  bell, 

Over  meadows  green  and  quiet, 

Over  towns  where  life  runs  riot ; 

Do  thine  errand  well ! 

Sing  thy  message,  sad  and  calm, 

Cold  and  holy  as  a  psalm, 

Hush  us  with  thy  knell! 

Toll,  toll,  toll !   over  wind  and  wave : 
Through  the  sunshine's  sudden  fading, 
Through  the  pine-tree's  voice  upbraiding, 
Where  the  wild  seas  rave. 
Snow-drifts  for  the  Summer  wait; 
Slumber  for  the  desolate ; 
Silence  in  the  grave. 

Toll,  toll,  toll !   through  the  quivering  sky ; 
Chime  thy  song  of  wintry  weather ; 
Cruel,  through  this  rapturous  ether, 
Call  the  bride  to  die. 


BELL-SONGS.  39 

Chill,  with  thy  relentless  tongue, 
Eyes  that  smiled  and  lips  that  sung; 
Bid  delight  good-bye. 

Toll,  toll,  toll !   heaven  is  in  the  sound ! 

Sad  alone  to  souls  unready. 

They  whose  lamps  were  trimmed  and  steady 

Christ  rejoicing  found. 

On  thy  rolling  waves  of  tone 

Float  I  to  the  Master's  throne. 

Life  and  love  abound. 


BELL-SONGS.    No.  2. 

"  Fulgora  frango." 

SWINGING  slowly  through  the  thunder, 
Thrill  the  vivid  bolts  asunder, 

Make  the  storm-wind  quail. 
Hurl  thy  challenge,  stern  defender, 
Fierce  against  the  tempest's  splendor, 

Past  the  hissing  hail. 

Leaping  through  affrighted  heaven, 
Swift  the  wrathful  flames  are  driven, 

Flashing  death  and  fear. 
Speak,  thou  bell !  with  sullen  clangor, 
Overcry  the  tempest's  anger, 

Force  the  storm  to  hear. 

Unrelenting,  burning,  streaming, 
Red  o'er  livid  oceans  gleaming, 

Lightnings  rend  the  sky. 
Break  the  thunder's  fearful  chorus, 
Lift  thy  peal  of  triumph  o'er  us, 

Floating  strong  and  high. 


BELL-SONGS.  41 


Tell  the  soul  thy  signal  story, 
How  its  own  inherent  glory 

Nature's  might  shall  quell. 
•  Ring  a  paean  for  the  spirit 
Fire  nor  flood  shall  disinherit. 

Praise  thy  makers,  bell ! 


BELL-SONGS.    No.  3. 

"  Sabbata  pango." 

CALMLY  dawns  the  golden  day, 
Over  mountains  pale  and  gray. 
Man,  forsake  thy  sleep  and  pray. 
Come,  come,  come ! 

Swinging  through  the  silent  air, 
Lo!   th%  call  itself  is  prayer. 
Fence  thy  soul  from  sin  and  care. 
Come,  come,  come! 

Like  a  dream,  serene  and  slow, 
Through  the  dawn's  aerial  glow, 
Hear  the  restful  cadence  flow : 
Come,  come,  come ! 

Think  that  in  my  pleading  tongue, 
Through  the  dewy  branches  swung, 
Christ  himself  this  word  hath  sung : 
Come,  come,  come! 


BELL-SONGS.  43 

Toil  and  battle,  rest  in  peace, 
In  the  holy  light's  increase, 
Weary  heart,  from  labor  cease ; 
Come,  come,  come! 

Lo !   up-rising  from  the  dead, 
God's  own  glory  on  His  head, 
His  pure  lips  thy  prayers  have  sped. 
Come,  come,  come  ! 


THE  ICONOCLAST. 

A  THOUSAND  years  shall  come  and  go, 
A  thousand  years  of  night  and  day, 

And  man,  through  all  their  changing  show, 
His  tragic  drama  still  shall  play. 

Ruled  by  some  fond  ideal's  power, 
Cheated  by  passion  or  despair, 

Still  shall  he  waste  life's  trembling  hour, 
In  worship  vain,  and  useless  prayer. 

Ah !  where  are  they  who  rose  in  might, 
Who  fired  the  temple  and  the  shrine, 

And  hurled,  through  earth's  chaotic  night, 
The  helpless  gods  it  deemed  divine  ? 

Cease,  longing  soul,  thy  vain  desire ! 

What  idol,  in  its  stainless  prime, 
But  falls,  untouched  of  axe  or  fire, 

Before  the  steady  eyes  of  Time. 


THK    ICONOCLAST.  45 

He  looks,  and  lo !  our  altars  fall, 

The  shrine  reveals  its  gilded  clay, 
With  decent  hands  we  spread  the  pall, 

And,  cold  with  wisdom,  glide  away. 

» 

Oh !  where  were  courage,  faith,  and  truth, 
If  man  went  wandering  all  his  day 

In  golden  clouds  of  love  and  youth, 
Nor  knew  that  both  his  steps  betray  ? 
x 

Come,  Time,  while  here  we  sit  and  wait, 

Be  faithful,  spoiler,  to  thy  trust! 
No  death  can  further  desolate 

The  soul  that  knows  its  god  was  dust. 


"ALL  THY  WORKS  PRAISE  THEE." 

I  HEAR  the  distant  city-bells 

Clang  their  loud  summons  to   Thy  throne, 
Along  the  wind  their  music  swells, 

And  I  am  here  —  alone. 

The  glory  of  Thy  faithful  Spring 

Makes  for  my  heart  an  ardent  prayer, 

And  for  my  psalm  of  fervor  sing 
The  choristers  of  air. 

If  any  sermonist  they  need 

Who  read  Thy  word  with  faithful  eyes, 
Expositors  my  spirit  feed, 

Inspired  from  earth  and  skies. 

The  life  that  pours  through  nature's  veins 

Its  visible  and  genial  tide, 
Thy  tender  robing  of  the  plains, 

The  forest's  stately  pride  ; 


"ALL   THY   WORKS   PRAISE    THEE."  47 

The  blossom  only  known  to  Thee, 
A  silent  smile  that  gleams  and  dies, 

The  labor-anthem  of  the  bee, 
Whose  rest  in  duty  lies ; 

• 

The  solemn  chorus  of  the  wind 

That  breathes  thy  power's  triumphant  tone, — 
All  frame  Thy  temple  in  my  mind  ; 

I  am  not  here  alone  ! 


A  COMPLAINT. 

A  HOT  noon  filled  the  Autumn  sky 
So  still,  the  pines  forgot  to  sigh, 
But  breathed  out  odors  graciously 

Along  the  slumbering  air : 
Sweet  scents  of  harvest-gathered  grain, 
And  heavy  fruit  that  wasps  profane, 
With  dead  leaves  drying  on  the  plain, 

Made  silence  soft  and  rare. 

There,  underneath  an  evergreen, 
Whose  boughs  against  a  hill-side  lean, 
I  lingered,  wrapt  in  thoughts  serene, 

Half  bordering  on  sleep. 
When  gently  on  mine  idleness 
Stole  a  low  murmur,  not  distress, 
But  monotoned  to  plaintiveness, 

Nor  sad  enough  to  weep. 

And  without  thought  I  had  a  sense 
Of  flowers  that  live  in  innocence, 


A  COMPLAINT.  49 

Set  in  the  desert's  shadow  dense, 

But  die,  ah  me !  alone. 

Their  pale  lips  breathed,  for  perfume,  song; 
Confiding  unto  speech  their  wrong, 
And,  for  that  I  had  loved  them  long, 

To  me  they  made  their  moan. 

A  purple  orchis  by  a  brook 
Began,  —  "I  see  not  from  my  nook 
Aught  but  the  summer  skies,  that  look 

Alike  on  bud  and  flower. 
Now  I  am  fading,  who  .will  know, 
With  grief  that  from  the  earth  I  go? 
Who  loved  me  ?  still  the  ripples  flow 

And  laugh  from  hour  to  hour." 

Then  a  wild-rose  complains  of  death, 
That  chills  the  sweetness  of  her  breath, 
And  more  that  no  clear  echo  saith 

To  clearer  tones,  —  "  Farewell !  " 
And  all  the  blossoms  joined  her  plaint, 
Till  the  first  murmur,  sad  and  faint, 
Made  in  my  ear  a  loud  complaint, 

Yet  sweet  as  chimes  a  bell. 

Then  I  made  answer,  —  "Beauty  grows 
For  beauty's  sake,  though  no  man  knows 
4 


50  A  COMPLAINT. 

The  hidden  place  of  its  repose, 

It  is  not  vain  nor  waste. 
Dear  flowers,  for  you  the  wild-birds  sing, 
Shy  fawns  behold  your  blossoming, 
And  poets,  dreaming,  at  your  spring 

Of  visioned  sweetness  taste. 

"And  Love  that  bent  the  arching  sky 
Your  fair  creations  satisfy." 
Then,  sliding  into  daylight,  I 

Turned  my  awakened  eyes, 
And  lo !  the  voice  was  silent,  flowers 
Stood  round  me  smiling  as  the  hours, 
Content  enough  with  sun  and  showers, 

Who  mocked  me  with  their  cries  ? 


THERE. 

"La-bas!    la-bus!   sous  la  verdure !" 

OH  !  if  I  were  buried, 
Love,  thy  sweetness  could  not  leave  me, 
Nor  thy  smile,  false  Hope,  deceive  me, 
Neither  joy  nor  terror  grieve  me 
There. 

Oh  that  I  were  buried! 
Grass  above  mine  eyelids  growing, 
Overhead  the  wild  winds  blowing, 
Peacefully  the  slow  years  flowing, 
There. 

Oh !  if  I  were  buried, 
Then  my  heart  were  filled  forever, 
Throbbing  pulses  cease  to  quiver, 
Cooled  in  rapture's  tranquil  river, 
There. 


52  THERE. 

Oh  that  I  were  buried ! 
Never  any  wearied  dreaming, 
No  more  night  and  no  more  seeming, 
Truth's  eternal  splendor  beaming, 
There. 

Oh !  if   I  were  buried, 
They  who  leave  me  to  my  sighing, 
Would  repent  above  my  dying, 
But  I  should  not  hear  their  crying 
There. 


THE   DESIRE   OF   THE  MOTH. 

GoLDEN-colored  miller, 
Leave  the  lamp,  and  fly  away! 
In  that  flame  so  brightly  gleaming, 
Sure,  though  smiling,  death  is  beaming ; 
Hasten  to  thy  play ! 

Nearer?    foolish  miller! 
Look !    thy  tiny  wings  will  burn. 
Just  escaped,  —  but  soon  'twill  reach  thee ; 
Ah  !    can  dying  only  teach  thee 
Truths  thou  wilt  not  learn  ? 

Didst  thou  whisper,  miller  ? 
Something  like  a  voice  and  sigh 
Seemed  to  say,  — "  in  all  thy  teaching, 
Is  there  practice,  or  but  preaching ; 
Doest  thou  more  than  I  ?  " 

Wisest  little  miller ! 
I  indeed  have  hung  too  long 


54  THE  DESIRE   OF   THE   MOTH. 

Round  a  flame  more  wildly  burning, 
And,  with  heart  too  fond  and  yearning, 
Heard  no  charmer's  song. 

Blinder  than  a  miller 
Hovering  with  devoted  gaze, 
Where  such  visions  vain  I  cherish, 
Either  they  or  I  must  perish, 
Like  that  flickering  blaze. 

But  the  moonlight,  miller, 
Better  far  befits  our  mirth ; 
That  calm,  streaming  light  is  given 
From  the  silent  depths  of  heaven ; 
Fire  is  born  of  earth! 


SEMELE. 

"  For  there  bee  none  of  those  pagan  fables  in  whiche  there  lyeth  not  a 
more  subtle  meanynge  than  the  extern  expression  thereof  should  att  once 
signifye.''  —  Marriages  of  ye  Deadt. 

SPIRIT  of  light  divine ! 

Quick  breath  of  power, 
Breathe  on   these  lips  of  mine, 
Persuade   the  bud  to  flower ; 

Cleave   thy   dull   swathe   of  cloud !    no   longer   waits 
the  hour. 

Exulting,  rapturous  flame, 

Dispel   the  night ! 
I  dare   not  breathe   thy  name, 

I  tremble   at   thy   light, 

Yet   come!  in  fatal  strength,  —  come,  in  all  matchless 
might. 

Burn,   as   the   leaping  fire 
A   martyr's  shroud ; 


56  SEMELE. 

Burn,  like  an  Indian  pyre, 

With  music  fierce  and  loud. 

Come  Power !    Love  calls  thee,  —  come,  with  all  the 
"  god  endowed  ! 

Immortal  life  in  death, 
On  these  rapt  eyes, 
On  this  quick,  failing  breath, 

In  dread  and  glory  rise. 

The   altar  waits   thy  torch,  —  come,  touch   the   sacri- 
fice! 

Come!   not  with  gifts  of  life, 

Not  for  my  good ; 
My  soul  hath  kept  her  strife 

In  fear  and  solitude; 

More    blest   the    inverted    torch,    the    horror-curdled 
blood. 

Better  in  light  to  die 

Than  silent  live; 
Rend  from   these   lips  one  cry, 

One  death-born  utterance  give, 

Then,  clay,    in    fire    depart !    then,  soul,    in    heaven 
survive  ! 


RECORDARE. 
M. 

EVEX   as  the   Summer   cries. 
When  the   sunshine  southward  flies, 
Weeping,  weeping  silently, 
So  I  sit  and  mourn  for  thee. 

Dreams  that  to  thy  dwelling  go, 
And  come  home  alone  and  slow, 
Constant  springs  of  sorrow  be, 
As  I  sit  and  mourn  for  thee. 

I  remember  all  thy  ways, 
Sweeter  than  my  lips   can   praise ; 
All  I  give  that  memory, 
Is  to  sit  and  mourn   for  thee. 

How  should  angels  longer  spare 
One  on  earth  without  compare  ? 
Thou,  to  their  dear  company,  — 
I,  to  sit  and  mourn  for  thee. 


58  EECORDARE. 

For  the  living  be  the  moan. 
Widowed,  motherless,  alone, 
Love!   alone  for  them  and  me, 
Here  I  sit  and  mourn  for  thee. 

Cradled  in  divine  repose, 
Thy  new  life  of  rapture  flows. 
God  be  thanked  !   too  blest  to  see 
How  I  sit  and  mourn  for  thee ! 


THE   RIVER. 

THE  river  flows  and  flows  away, 

A  lonely  stream   through  forests  gray, 

No  rippled  rapids  o'er  it  play ; 

Forever  and  forever. 
As  silent  as  a  winter's  night, 
With   purple  heavens  all   alight, 
And  planets   shining  strangely  bright; 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 

No  fount  nor  fall  the  vision  finds, 

And  in  no  devious   course  it  winds, 

But  straight  from   where  the  sunset  shines, 

Forever  and  forever. 
A  mystery  of  shade  and  gleam, 
O'er  hidden   rocks  glides  on   the  stream, 
Like  sleep  above  a   fearful  dream; 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 

It  streams  pure  silver  in  the   sun, 
Slow,  sullen  lead,   with  storms  begun, 
And  golden   green   when  day  is  done, 
Forever  and  forever. 


60  THE  RIVER. 

A  flow  of  pearl  in  moonlight  cold, 
With  moonless  midnight  onward  rolled, 
Blacker  than  Lethe  streamed  of  old. 
So  quiet  is  the  river. 

Oh,  water !  by  thy  waves  serene, 
As  tranquil  hours  a  life  hath  seen, 
No  more  to  be  as  they  have  been 

Forever  and  forever. 
For  underneath  its  restless  flow, 
Too  black  for  light's  full  noon  to  show, 
Lie  broken  rocks  no  mortals  know. 

So  quiet  is  the  river. 


SONG. 

AIRS  of  Summer  that  softly  blow, 
Sing  your   whispering   songs   to   me, 
Over  the  grass   like   a   shadow  go, 
Flutter  your  wings  in  the  rustling  tree. 

Curl  the   wave  on  the  sunny  sand, 
Rock   the  bee  in  its  rose  asleep,  f 

Scatter  odors  from   strand  to  strand, 
Over  ocean  in   laughter  sweep. 

Kiss  the  snows  on   the   mountain   height, 
Vex  the  river  that  leaps  beneath, 
Sing  in  the  fir-trees  your  sweet  good-night, 
And  cease  like  a  baby's  slumbering  breath. 


EN  ESPAGNE. 

I  BUILT   a  Palace,  white  and   high, 
With  sweeping  purple  tapestried ; 
No  dusty  highway  ran   thereby, 
But  guarded  alleys  to  it  led; 
And  shaven  lawns  about  were  spread, 
Where  bird  and  moth  danced  daintily. 

So  gracious  were  its  portals  wide, 
So  light  and  fair  the  turrets  stood, 
No  flaw  mine  eager  eye  espied, 
I  fashioned  it,  and  called  it  good  ; 
And  lavished  on  its  solitude 
All  garnishings  of  pomp  and  pride. 

That  was  in  golden  summer-time ;  — 

The  winter-wind  is  howling  now. 

My  Palace  has  passed  out  of  time, — 

The   sward  is  only  sheeted  snow, 

Its  hangings  with   the  dead  leaves  blow 

There  comes  an  end  to  mortal   prime. 


EN  ESPAGNE.  63 

And  I,  who  laid  it  stone  by  stone. 
Stone  after  stone  do  take  it  down. 
What  if  a  king,  whose  state  had  flown, 
Should  pull  apart  his  regal  crown  ? 
For  kingly   hearts  no  fate  can   frown, 
They  rule  forever  o'er  their  own. 


LA  COQUETTE. 

You  look  at  me  with  tender  eyes, 
That,  had  you  worn  a  month  ago, 
Had  slain  me  with  divine  surprise :  — 
But  now  I  do  not  see  them   glow. 

I  laugh  to  hear  your  laughter  take 
A  softer  thrill,  a  doubtful  tone,  — 
I  know  you  do  it  for  my  sake. 
You  rob  the  nest  whose  bird  is  flown. 

Not  twice  a  fool,  if  twice  a  child  ! 
I  know  you  now,  and  care  no  more 
For  any  lie  you  may  have  smiled, 
Than  that  starved  beggar  at  your  door. 

He  has  the  remnants  of  your  feast ; 
You  offer  me  your  wasted  heart ! 
He  may  enact  the  welcome  guest  ; 
I   shake   the  dust  off  and  depart. 


LA   COQUETTE.  65 

If  you  had  known  a  woman's  grace 
And  pitied  me  who  died  for  you, 
I  could  not  look  you  in  the  face, 
When  now  you  tell  me  you  are  "  true." 

True  !  —  If  the  fallen  seraphs  wear 
A  lovelier  face   of  false  surprise 
Than  you  at  my  unmoving  air, 
There   is  no  truth,  this   side  the   skies. 

But  this  is  true,  that  once  I  loved. — 
You  scorned  and  laughed  to  see  me  die  ; 
And  now  you  think   the   heart  so   proved 
Beneath  your  feet  again  shall  lie ! 

I  had  the  pain  when  you  had  power; 
Now  mine  the  power,  who  reaps  the  pain  ? 
You  sowed  the  wind  in  that  black  hour; 
Receive  the  whirlwind  for  your  gain  ! 


OCTOBER. 

"  Rest !  rest !  shall  I  not  have  all  Eternity  to  rest  in?  "  —  ARNAULT). 

THERE  comes  a  time  -of  rest  to  thee, 
Whose  laden  boughs  droop  heavily 
Toward  earth,  thou  golden-fruited  tree! 

A  time  when  wind  and  tempest  cease 
To  spoil  and  stain  thy  fair  increase : 
After  fruition  deepest  peace. 

The  tender  bloom  that  decked  thee,  bride, 
The  jewels  of  thy  matron  pride, 
And  purple  robes,  —  all  laid  aside. 

The  slow,  red  sunshine,  o'er  thee  cast, 
In  sweet,  sad  kisses  for  thy  last, 
And  shadow-haunted  from  the  past. 

Green,  leafy,  quiet,  freed  from  care, 
No  heavier  weight  thy  lithe  limbs  bear 
Than  dripping  rain  and  sunny  air. 


OCTOBER.  67 

But  unto  man's   diviner  sense 
The  strenuous  rest  of  penitence 
Remaineth   only  for  defence. 

His  fruit  drops  slowly  from  his  hands, 

But  only   with  the  dropping  sands 

That  fall  on  Time's  slow-gathering  strands. 

The  sower  in  this  mortal  field 

Shall  reap  no  harvest's   gracious  yield, 

The  warrior  conquers — on   his  shield. 

But  after  life  and   fruit  and  rest, 
Thou,  tree !   by  dust  shalt  be  possessed  ; 
To  him  remains  a  day   more   blest, 

A  newer  hope,  a  summer-time 
Renewed  forever  in  its  prime, 
Where  God,  his  harvest,  sits  sublime. 


LOSS   AND   G'AIN. 

HOPE  went  singing  southward, 
And  left  me  silent  here ; 
I  did  not  scorn  nor  sorrow, 
I  had  no  smile  nor  tear; 
For  out  of  the  door  beside  her, 
Went  her  serving-maiden,  Fear. 

Where  there  comes  no  morning, 
There  never  is  any  night; 
The  clouds  will  fly  from  heaven 
When  the  sun  shall  lose  its  light ; 
And  he  who  wants  the  pleasure 
Wants  the  pain  of  sight. 

Rain  and  rainbow  vanish, 
But  the  sky  is  undismayed; 
Hope  and  Fear  may  leave  us, 
And  the  price  of  life  be  paid ; 
Greater  than  any  passion 
Is  the  soul  that  God  hath  made. 


LOSS  AND   GAIN.  69 

Go !    walk  the  world  together, 
And  trouble  the  hearts  of  men ; 
Go  paint  and  pluck  the  blossoms 
That  never  shall  bloom  again; 
But  dread  the  day  of  Heaven : 
Ye  both  shall  perish  then ! 


"NON  FIT." 

THE  poet's  thoughts  are  full  of  might, 
Elate  with  glory  and  delight; 
New  tints  are  in  his  heavens  spread ; 
On  odors  keen  his  sense  is  fed, 
And  strains  accordant  angels  sing ; 
Through  all  his  sleep  their  echoes  ring. 

The  poet  has  a  lonely  soul ; 
He  hears  the  seas  in  thunder  roll, 
Perceives  the  rapture  of  the  rose, 
And  every  tone  of  Nature  knows ; 
But  cannot  speak  the  tongue   of  men, 
Or  give  their  greetings  back  again. 

His   eyes  alight  with  love  intense, 
His  face  all   calm   with  innocence ; 
The  green  leaves  kiss  his  waving  hair, 
The   wild-birds  sing  him  carols  rare, 
Intent  to  celebrate  and  bless ; 
His   Eden  fills   the   wilderness. 


"NON   FIT."  71 

But  all  his  songs   are  minor-keyed ; 
Hi*  prayers  are  less  to  praise  than  plead, 
His   smiles  are   full  of  grief  asleep, 
His  heart   like  ocean's  bitter  deep ; 
For  tears  and  laughter,   hand  in  hand, 
About  his   vibrant  nature  stand. 

At  this   the   world  admiring  gaze, 

And  think   they  feed  his  soul   with   praise ; 

But  whisper  in   a  loud  aside, 

"  Is  this  your  poet's   vaunted  pride  ? 

Why,  better  be  the   common  clay 

Than  thus  'twixt  heaven    and    hell  astray." 

But  he,  respiring  sudden   fire, 
Hears  and  replies  in   righteous  ire, 
"  Better  to  sound  the  depths  of  hell, 
If  thence  to  heaven   our  praises  swell ; 
Nobler  than   life,  or  love,  to  die 
Transfixed   with  immortality  !  " 


SEPTEMBER. 

SORROWFUL  Autumn !   my  summer  is  over  ; 

Roses   no  longer  shall  surfeit  the  bee; 
White  crowding  daisies  and  honey-sweet  clover 

Shiver  and  perish,  breathed  on  by  thee. 

All  the  fair  blossoms  that  trembled  at  morning, 
Heavy  with  dew  in  the  wandering  wind, 

Hang  their  frail  bells  at  thy  trumpet  of  warning, 
Scatter  their  lives  on   the  tempest  unkind. 

Over  the  forest  the  bitterns  are  flying, 
Golden  and  scarlet  the  maple-trees  stand, 

Out  of  the  black   East  a  rain-song  is  sighing, 
Pitiless,  desolate,  death   is  at  hand ! 

Far  in  the  North,  like  a   vision  of  sorrow, 
Rise  the  white  snow-drifts  to  topple   and  fall ; 

Winds   of  wild   fury  shall   hurl   them    to-morrow 
Deeply  and  hopelessly  far  over  all. 


SEPTEMBER.  73 

Ah !   what  new   Spring  shall  awaken   the  glory 
Vanished  forever  in-  darkness  to-day  ? 

Falser  than   fair  is   Hope's   eloquent  story, 
Roses  once  withered  are  withered  for  aye. 


THE   LOST   ANCHOR. 

THERE  lies  a  rusted  anchor 
Deep  in  the  white  sea-sand ; 

Where  trails  the  good  ship's  cable 
That  parted,  strand   by  strand? 

The  north-wind  roared  and  thundered, 
The  leaping  waves  ran  high  ; 

Dark  on   the  foaming  water 
Shut  down  the  stormy  sky. 

But  still  the  lithe  mast  quivered 

Under  the  flapping  sail ; 
The  cordage  shrieked  and  rattled, 

And  yelled  the  furious   gale. 

One  strain  —  one  plunge  —  one  struggle 
The  mighty  strands  give  way  — 

Now  far  from  home  and  harbor, 
Away,  away,  away ! 


THE  LOST  ANCHOR.  75 

Beyond  the  sight  of  shelter, 
Far  out  her  stern-lights  shine. 

Poor  ship,  to  lose  thine  anchor, 
Poor  broken   hope  of  mine  ! 


THEN. 

I  GIVE  thee  treasures  hour  by  hour, 
That  old-time  princes  asked  in  vain, 

And  pined  for  in  their  useless  power, 
Or  died  of  passion's  eager  pain. 

I  give  thee  love  as   God  gives  light, 
Aside  from  merit  or  from    prayer, 

Rejoicing   in   its  own   delight, 
And  freer   than   the  lavish  air. 

I  give  thee  prayers  like  jewels  strung 
On  golden  threads  of  hope  and  fear, 

And  tenderer  thoughts  than  ever  hung 
In  a  sad  angel's  pitying  tear. 

As   earth  pours  freely  to  the  sea 

Its  thousand  streams  of  wealth  untold, 

So  flows  my  silent  life  to  thee, 
Glad  that  Us  very  sands  are  gold. 


THEN.  77 

What  care  I  for  thy  carelessness  ? 

I   give  from  depths   that  overflow; 
Regardless  that  their  power  to  bless 

Thy  spirit  cannot  sound  or  know. 

Far  lingering  on  a  distant  dawn, 

My  triumph  shines,  more  sweet  than  late, 

When,  from  these  mortal  mists   withdrawn, 
Thine  heart  shall  know  me,  —  I   can   wait. 


FANTASIA. 

WHEN  I  am  a  sea-flower 
Under  the  cool  green  tide, 
Where  the  sunshine  slants  and  quivers, 
And  the  quaint,  gray  fishes  glide, 
I'll  shut  and  sleep  at  noonday, 
At  night  on  the  waves  I'll  ride, 
And  see  the  surf  in  moonshine 
Rush  on  the  black  rocks'  side. 

When  I  am  a  sea-bird, 
Under  the  clouds  I'll  fly, 
And  'light  on  a  rocking  billow 
Tossing  low  and  high. 
Safe  from  the  lee-shore's  thunder, 
Mocking  the  mariner's  cry, 
Drifting  away  on  the  tempest, 
A  speck  on  the  sullen  sky ! 

When  I  am  a  sea-wind, 

I'll  watch  for  a  ship  I  know, 


FANTASIA.  79 

Through  the  sails  and  rigging 
Merrily  I  will  blow. 
The  crew  shall  be  like  dead  men 
White  with  horror  and  woe  ; 
Then  I'll  sing  like  a  spirit, 
And  let  the  good  ship  go. 


SONG. 

NIGHT  comes  creeping  slowly  o'er  me, 
Like  a  vapor  cold  and  gray ; 

Dim  the  track  that  lies  before  me, 
Lost  the  lingering  smile  of  day. 

As  a  river,  nearing  ocean, 

Drops  the  brooklet's  merry  bell, 

I  forget  hope's  wild  emotion; 

Love  and  life,  farewell,   farewell! 

Eyes  above  me  raining  sorrow, 
Lips  too  tender  to  be  true, 

In  the  sunshine  of  to-morrow 

Glow  and  sweetness  shall  renew. 

I  have  trod  a  weary  measure, 
Fairy-tales  no  more  I  tell. 

False  is  pain,  and  fleeting  pleasure ; 
Love  and  life,  farewell,   farewell! 


SONG.  81 

Softly  through  the  darkened  heaven, 

Like  a  vision   in   the   night, 
Float  the  purple   wings  of  even ; 

No  more  laughter,  no  more  light. 

Close  mine  eyes,  worn  out  with  weeping, 

Weary  pulses   rest  as   well ! 
In   the  dust  and  silence   sleeping, 

Love  and  life,  farewell,   farewell ! 


BIRD  MUSIC. 

SINGER  of  priceless  melody, 

Unguerdoned  chorister  of  air, 
Who  from  the  lithe  top  of  the  tree 

Pourest  at  will  thy  music  rare, 
As    if    a    sudden    brook    laughed    down    the   hill-side 
there. 

The  purple-blossomed  fields  of  grass, 

Waved  sea-like  to  the  idle  wind, 
Thick  daisies  that  the  stars  surpass, 

Being  as  fair  and  far  more  kind ;  — 
All  sweet  uncultured   things   thy  wild  notes  bring  to 
mind. 

When  that  enraptured   overflow 

Of  singing  into  silence-  dies, 
Thy  rapid  fleeting  pinions  show 

Where  all  thy  spell  of  sweetness  lies 
Gathered    in    one    small   nest    from    the    wide   earth 
and   skies. 


BIRD  MUSIC.  83 

Unconscious  of  thine  audience, 

Careless  of  praises  as  of  blame, 
In  simpleness  and  innocence, 

Thy  gentle  life  pursues  its  aim, 
So    tender    and    serene,   that    we    might   blush    for 
shame. 

The  patience  of  thy  brooding  wings 

That  droop  in   silence  day  by  day, 
The  little  crowd  of  callow  things 

That  joy  for  weariness   repay, — 
These  are  the  living  spring,   thy  song  the  fountain's 
spray. 


FASTRADA'S  RING. 

"  STRETCH  out  thy  hand,  insatiate  Time ! 

Keeper  of  keys,  restore  to  me 
Some  gift  that  in  the  gray  Earth's  prime 

Her  happy  children  held  of  thee ; 
Some  signet  of  that  mystery 

Thy  footsteps  trample  into  death, 
Some  score  of  that  strange    harmony 

That  sings  in   every  breath." 

So  sung  I  on  an  autumn-day, 

Sitting  in  silence,  golden,  clear, 
When  even  the  mild  winds  seemed  to  pray 

Beside  the  slowly  dying  year, 
And  the  old  conqueror  stopped   to  hear; 

For,   like  the  echo  of  a  bell, 
I  heard   him   speak,   in  accents   clear : 

"  Choose  !   and  thy  wise  choice   tell !  " 

Then  all  my  vanishing  desires, 

The  threads  of  hope  and  joy  and  pain, 


FASTRADA'S  RING.  85 

Long  burned  in   life's  consuming  fires, 

Came  glittering  into  life  again, 
And,  gathered  as  a  summer  rain 

Into  the  rainbow's  bended  wing, 
Cried,  with  one  voice  of  longing  vain : 

"  Give  me   Fastrada's  ring ! 

"  Give  me  that  talisman  of  peace 

She  wore   upon  her  finger  white, 
Then  shall  the  weary  visions  cease, 

That   haunt  me   all  the  lingering  night ; 
The  world  shall  blossom  with  delight, 

And  birds  of  heaven  about  me  sing  ; 
Ah !   fill  these  darkened  eyes  with  light ! 

Give  me  Fastrada's  ring! 

"  Give  me  no  jewels  from  thy  store, 

No  learned  scrolls^  no  gems  of  art  ; 
My  eager  w ishes   grasp  at  more : 

Sleep  for  a  worn  and  wretched  heart ; 
A  draught  to  melt  these  lips  apart, 

Sealed  with  such  thirst  as  death-pains  bring; 
Love,  —  life's  sole  rest  and  better  part, 

Give  me   Fastrada's  ring !  " 


TRUTHS. 

I  WEAK  a  rose  in  my  hair, 

Because  I  feel  like  a  weed  ; 
Who  knows  that  the  rose  is  thorny 

And  makes  my  temples  bleed  ? 

If  one   gets  to  his  journey's  end,  what  matter   how 
galled  the  steed? 

I  gloss  my  face  with  laughter, 
Because  I  cannot  be  calm ; 
When  you  listen  to  the  organ, 

Do  you  hear  the  words  of  the  psalm? 
If   they  give   you  poison  to  drink,  'tis  better  to  call 
it  balm. 

If  I  sneer  at  youth's  wild  passion, 

Who  fancies  I  break  my  heart? 
'Tis  this  world's  righteous  fashion, 

With  a  sneer  to  cover  a  smart. 
Better  to  give  up  living  than  not  to  play  your  part. 


TRUTHS.  87 

If  I  scatter  gold  like  a  goblin, 

My  life  may  yet  be  poor. 
Does  Love  come  in  at  the  window 

When  Money  stands  at  the  door? 
I  am  what  I  seem  to  men.     Need  I  be  any  more? 

God  sees  from  the  high  blue  heaven, 

He  sees  the  grape  in  the  flower ; 
He  hears  one's  life-blood  dripping 

Through  the  maddest,  merriest  hour ; 
He  knows  what  sackcloth  and  ashes  hide  in  the  pur- 
ple of  power. 

The  broken  wing  of  the  swallow 

He  binds  in  the  middle  air ; 
I  shall  be  what  I  am  in  Paradise  — 

So,  heart,  no  more  despair ! 

Remember  the  blessed  Jesus,  and  wipe  his  feet  with 
thy  hair. 


MY  RED  CARNATION. 

s.  c.  w. 

REDDER  than  any  summer-rose, 
Far  redder  than  the  garnet  glows, 
And  set  beside  the  lily's  snows, 

Fair  blossom,  bloom  for  me ! 
With  Indian  breath  of  sun-kissed  spice, 
And  dainty  petals,  point-device, 
What  florist  ever  knew  thy  price, 

Or  half  thy  charms  could  see? 

As  tropic  in  thy  breathing  glow, 
As  if  Asiatic  winds  did  blow 
Thy  crown  of  beauty  to  and  fro, 

And  sway  thy  slender  stem  ; 
Yet  statelier  in  floral  pride 
Than  any  queen  that  flaunts  a  bride, 
Such  quaint  and  courtly  graces  glide 

Around  thy  diadem. 


MY   RED   CARNATION.  89 

Thy  leaf  should  point  its  verdant  lance 
By  castle-walls  of  old  romance, 
Where  fountains  to  the  soft  airs  dauce, 

And  glittering  peacocks  trail ; 
Or  white  swans  break  the  sullen  sleep 
Of  some  old  lake,  set  dark  and  deep 
Among  the  trees  that  o'er  it  weep 

When  autumn  eves  grow  pale. 

The  violet  hath  a  fond  perfume, 
The  passion-flower  a  mystic  bloom, 
And  heather  spreads  its  cloud  of  gloom 

O'er  highland  mountains  bare ; 
The  red  rose  veils  a  heart  of  flame, 
And  blushes  with  unconscious  shame, 
The  snow-drop  fits  its  icy  name, 

Most  frigid  and  most  fair. 

But  thou  art  love  that  pride  adorns 
The  rose's  heart  without  its  thorns, 
A  child  of  summer's  fragrant  morns, 

Dew-christened  by  the  night. 
Ah !   cold  and  fair  to  others  be, 
But  spread  thy  glowing  heart  to  me, 
And,  as  thou  wert,  still  ever  be 

My  darling  and  delight. 


USE. 

IF  I  were  a  cloud  in  heaven, 

I  would  hang  over  thee  ; 
If  I  were  a  star  of  even, 

I'd  rise  and  set  for  thee ; 
For  love,  life,  light,  were  given 

Thy  ministers  to  be. 

If  I  were-  a  wind's  low  laughter, 

I'd  kiss   thy   hair ; 
Or  a  sunbeam  coming  after, 

Lie  on  thy  forehead  fair ; 
For  the  world  and  its  wide  hereafter 

Have  nought  with  thee  to  compare. 

If  I  were  a  fountain  leaping, 

Thy  name  should  be 
The  burden  of  my  sweet  weeping; 

If  I  were  a  bee, 
My  honeyed  treasures  keeping, 

'Twere  all  for  thee ! 


LISE.  91 

There's  never  a  tided  ocean 

Without  a  shore ; 
Nor  a  leaf  whose  downward  motion 

No  dews  deplore ; 
And  I  dream  that  my  devotion 

May  move  thee  to  sigh  once  more. 


DEPARTING. 

WEEP  not  for  the  dead!  they  lie 
Safe  from  every  changing  sky  ; 
Over  them  thou  shall  not  cry 

Any  more. 

Weep  for  him  whose  lessening  sail, 
Borne  upon  an  outward  gale, 
Sees  the  beacon  faint  and  fail 

On  the  shore. 

Weep  not  for  the  dead:  they  sleep 

Where  no  evil  visions  creep ; 

God  hath  sealed  their  slumber  deep 

Till  His  day. 

Weep  for  him  who  fleeth  fast 
On  a  fierce  and   alien  blast, 
Torn  from  all  the  haunted  past, 

Far  away. 

He  shall  never  see  again 
Home-lit  valley,  hill,  or  plain ; 


DEPARTING.  93 

He  shall  mourn   and  cry   in   vain 

O'er  the  dead. 

Wandering  in  a  stranger-land, 
None  shall  grasp  his  listless   hand, 
No  sweet  sister-nurse  shall  stand 

By  his  bed. 

Weep  for  him,  and  weep  for  those 
Who  shall  never  more   unclose 
Home's   dear  portals,  nor  repose 

In  its  rest. 

Foreign  where   their  kindred  dwell, 
Strange  where  they  have  loved  too  well, 
Homesick  as  no  speech  can  tell, 

All  unblest. 

For  the  dead  thou  shalt  not  mourn, 
He  hath  reached  a  peaceful  bourne; 
Weep  for  him,  the  travel-worn, 

All  alone  ! 

Life's  long  torture  he   must  bear 
Tni   his  very  soul   despair, 
Helpless   both  for  cry  or  prayer ; 

Make  his  moan  ! 


A  STATUE. 

DREAM  divine  and  tender, 

Frozen  into  stone ; 
Pall  nor  purple  splendor 

Round   thy  grace  is  thrown; 
Thou  standest  like  a  star,  clothed  in  thy  light  alone. 

Silent  with  the  passion 

Of  thy  new   despair ; 
In  the  spotless  fashion 

That  all  angels  wear ; 
Like  softly  falling  snow  thy  presence  fills  the  air. 

On  thy  lips  half-parted, 

Sleeps  a  dreaming  sigh  ; 
Love  and  hope  departed  • 

Droop  thy  pensive  eye ; 
And  anguish  on  thy  brow  hath  set  her  majesty. 

Neither  shame  nor  madness 
Touch  thy  spirit  pure ; 


A   STATUE.  95 

Regally  hath  sadness 

Taught  thee  to  endure  ; 
Earth  passes  at  thy  feet,  but  heaven  is  ever  sure. 

Like  the  languid  tolling 

Of  a  funeral  bell, 
Or  the  awful  rolling 

Of  the   ocean's  swell, 

Thou   stillest    sound  with   awe,  through    power's  sub- 
limest  spell. 

In  what  holy  vision 

Of  a  midnight  moon, 
Did  thy  shape  Elysian 

Rise,   like  some  sad  tune, 

Through  the  rapt  sculptor's  soul,  and  turn  his  night 
to  noon? 

Utter  thus  forever, 

With  resistless  tongue, 
Higher  thought  than  ever 

Bird  or  breeze  hath  sung ; 
For  Beauty  never  dies,  and   Grace   is  ever  young. 


A  PICTURE. 

UPON  her  pale  cheek,  day  by  day, 
No  tender,  rosy  blushes  play  ; 
The  shadows  gathered  on  her  hair 
Lie  soft  above  her  forehead  fair  ; 
A  frailer  shade  is  she. 

No  footstep  on  the  stone  goes  by, 
But  strikes  a  fire  across  her  eye; 
No  sudden  voice  a  word  can  speak, 
But  flashes  red  light  on  her  cheek ; 

Such  guards  her  quick  thoughts  be. 

All  day  she  sees  the  sullen  rain 
Splash  slow  against  the  window-pane ; 
All  night  the  south-wind  makes   its  moan, 
About  her  chamber  low  and  lone  ; 
She  cannot  die  nor  rest. 

Like  some  old  saint  in  cell  withdrawn, 
In  prayer  and  penance  till  the  dawn, 


A  PICTURE.  97 

So  her  sad  soul  its  vigil  holds, 
As  year  on  year  to  life  unfolds, 
And  wears  her  patient  breast. 

Not  any  leech  can  find  a  cure 
For  these  slow  miseries  that  endure, 
Till  heaven  before  her  eyes  shall  ope 
The  golden  gate  foreseen  by  hope, 
And  medicine  her  heart. 

There  is  no  new  life  for  the  dead, 
No  gathering  up  the  tears  once  shed ; 
Pray,  ye  beloved,  who  pity  her, 
That   God  no  more   that  rest  defer; 
Pray  that  her  soul  depart. 


ROSEMARY. 

EARTH'S  singing  time  and  floral  weather, 
With  golden  flower  and  scarlet  feather, 
Have  vanished  in  the  South  together, 

And  left  me  with  the  frost. 
Where  thrush  and  oriole  hovered  brightly, 
The  sparrows   hop  and  twitter  lightly, 
And  crows  fly  from  the  sea-ward  nightly, 

By  hurried  north-winds  tossed. 

Gray  storm-clouds  in  the  dark  east  lying, 
Through  leafless  woods  the  crickets  crying, 
And  toward  the  happy  tropics  flying, 

A  line  of  silent  birds. 
All  these  have  tales  of  drear  November, 
And  bid  me,  shivering,  here  remember 
Long  nights  when   redly   burns  the  ember, 

And   fast   fly  eager  words.  • 

Forever  past  are  songs  and  roses, 
The   Summer  deep  in  leaves  reposes, 


ROSEMARY.  99 

And  life  has  done  with  tuneful  closes, 

Now  let  the  ashes  sleep. 
For  us  whose  summer  hymn  is   ending, 
Its   ohorus   with  sweet  echoes  blending, 
Shall  still   be  on  and  upward  tending, 

Till  eyes  no  more  can  weep. 

Another   Spring  its  censers  swinging, 

Shall   wake  again  both   bloom  and  singing, 

And   wild   brooks  from  their  dumbness  springing, 

Go  chattering  down   the  hills. 
What  if  the  dust  beside  them  sleeping, 
Last  year  had  laughter,  life,  and  weeping  ? 
Earth   drops   such  memories  from  her  keeping, 

To-day  her  whole  heart  fills. 

Now  withered  leaves  fall  in  the  grasses, 
While  rain  and  wind  sing  funeral  masses, 
And  like  a  veil  the  dank  mist  passes 

Across  the  bleak   world's  face. 
This  dreary  time  is  fit  for  sorrow, 
But  love  and  hope  good  cheer  can  borrow, 
And  while  we  die,  they   wait  the  morrow 

Their  sunshine  to  replace. 


WOOD  LAUREL. 

QUEEN  regnant  of  the  summer  wood, 
That  hearest  thrush  and  hangbird  cry, 
With  such  a  dream-like  majesty 
As  crowns  thee,  out  of  solitude, 
The  fairest  flower  that  ever  stood, 
Impassive,  safe  from  sympathy. 

Light  roseate  cloud  of  dawning  day, 
Hung  floating  in  the  gloom  of  leaves, 
Vainly  for  thee  the  night-wind  grieves, 
Vainly  all  forest-murmurs  stray. 
In  thy   cold  blossoms   vainly  play 
The  thousand  love-songs  Nature  weaves. 

So  pure,  so  perfect,  so  serene, 
With  tender,  mocking  blushes  dyed, 
The  cankerous  honey-dew  of  pride, 
Charms  soft  and  deadly  in   thy  mien, 
The  natural  sceptre   of  a  queen, 
Heart  frozen,  but  half  deified. 


WOOD   LAUREL.  101 

Beware,  oh  glancing  butterfly ! 

The  rosy  bloom  is  sweet  to  see, 

But  have  thou  care  of  majesty, 

The  serf  that  loves  the  queen  must  die. 

Gay,  living  blossom !   dance  and  fly 

To  humbler  feasts,  secure  for  thee. 

Assiduous  honey-bee,  beware ! 

Those  bright  cups  glow  with  poisoned  wine ; 

The  wild-rose  and  the  columbine 

Have  simple  treasures,  safe  to  share. 

This  regal  beauty  holds  thy  snare, 

The  form,  but  not  the  soul,  divine. 


NEMESIS. 

WITH  eager  steps  I  go 

Across  the  valleys  low, 
Where  in  deep  brakes  the  writhing  serpents  hiss. 

-Above,  below,  around, 

I  hear  the  dreadful  sound 
Of  thy  calm  breath,  eternal  Nemesis ! 

Over  the  mountains  high, 

Where  silent  snow-drifts  lie, 
And  greet  the  red  morn  with  a  pallid  kiss, 

There,  in  the  awful  night, 

I  see  the  solemn  light 
Of  thy  clear  eyes,  avenging  Nemesis ! 

Far  down  in  lonely  caves, 

Dark  as  the  empty  graves 
That  wait  our  dead  hopes  and  our  perished  bliss, 

Though  to  their  depths  I  flee, 

Still  do  my  fixed  eyes  see 
Thy  pendant  sword,  unchanging  Nemesis  ! 


NEMESIS.  103 

Inevitable  fate ! 

Still  must  thy  phantoms  wait 
And  mock  my  shadow  like  its  fearful  twin  ? 

Is  there  no  final  rest 

In  this  doom-haunted  breast? 
Does  thy  terrific  patience  wait  therein? 

"  Aye !  wander  as  thou  wilt, 

The  blood  thy  hand  hath  spilt 
Stamps  on  thy  brow  its  black,  eternal  sign ; 

Thyself  thou  canst  not  flee. 

"Writhe  in  thine  agony  ! 
Suffer!  despair!  thou  art  condemned — and  mine." 


"CREDE  TANTUM." 

DEAR  weeper  at  the  grassy  bed, 

Where  Love  lies  cold,  with  folded  eyes, 

The  life  thou  mournest  is  not  dead, 
Wait,  and  have  faith,  it  shall  arise! 

If,  from  thy  narrow  dell  of  earth, 

It  seems  for  some  new  heaven  to  soar ; 

Distrust  not  Love's  immortal  birth, 
Believe  it  lives,  to  die  no  more. 

Have  faith !  have  faith !  though  cold  and  death 
Dim  the  soft  eye  and  still  the  heart, 

Though  closed  the  lips  and  hushed  the  breath, 
Though  hope  and  fear  alike  depart. 

Believe,   for  surer  than  the  rise 
Of  morning  o'er  the  stagnant  sea, 

New  light  shall  fill  those  frozen  eyes, 
New  smiles   shall  part  thy  lips  for  thee. 


"CREDE   TANTUM."  105 

Love  never  dies :  it  cannot  die ; 

Nor  flood,  nor  fire,  nor  rending  heaven, 
Can  make  the  heart  its  life  deny, 

Or  gather  back  the  gift  once  given. 

There  comes  a  Spring  for  every  snow, 

For  every  death  a  life  hereafter  ; 
And  they  whose  tears  have  bitterest  flow, 

Shall  fill  their  lips  with  sweetest  laughter. 


THE  FISHING  SONG. 

DOWN  in  the  wide,  gray  river, 
The  current  is  sweeping  strong; 

Over  the  wide,  gray  river, 
Floats  the  fisherman's  song. 

The  oar-stroke  times  the  singing; 

The  song  falls  with  the  oar; 
And  an  echo  in  both  is  ringing; 

I  thought  to  hear  no  more. 

Out  of  a  deeper  current, 

The  song  brings  back  to  me 

A  cry  from  mortal  silence, 
Of  mortal  agony. 

Life  that  was  spent  and  vanished, 
Love  that  had  died  of  wrong, 

Hearts  that  are  dead  in  living, 

Come  back  on  the  fisherman's  song. 


THE  FISHING  SONG.  107 

I  see  the  maples  leafing, 

Just  as  they  leafed  before; 
The  green  grass  comes  no   greener 

Down  to  the  very  shore. 

And  the  rude  song  swelling,  sinking, 
In  the  cadence  of  days  gone  by, 

As  the  oar,  from  the  water  drinking, 
Ripples  the  mirrored  sky. 

Yet  the  soul  hath  life  diviner; 

Its  past  returns  no  more  ; 
But  in  echoes  that  answer  the  minor 

Of  the  boat-song  from  the  shore. 

And  the  ways  of  God  are  darkness, 

His  judgment  waiteth  long; 
He  breaks  the  heart  of  a  woman 

With  a  fisherman's  careless  song. 


JULY  XXIV. 

COME  back!  come  back!  forsake  thy  rest, 
And  tread  the  darkened  paths  of  men! 

Bring  gladness  to  the  lonely  breast, 
Peace  to  the  troubled  dreams  again. 

Nor  yet  without  a  ransom,  Death, 
I  plead  to  loose  thy  dread  embrace! 

I  offer  thee  but  breath  for  breath, 
Give  this  one  life  to  fill  my  place. 

For  thee,  lost  sleeper,  tears  are  shed 
That  fall  not  for  the  slave  set  free ; 

Thou,  mourned  as  those  too  early  dead ; 
I,  mourning  in  captivity. 

For  thee  the  life-rose,  blooming,  glowed ; 

I  long  perceive  its  naked   thorn  ; 

For  thee,  soft  spread  the  widening   road 

I  see  grow  narrower  every  morn. 


JULY  XXIV.  109 

Send  the  keen  rapture  of  surprise, 
•    A  sudden  joy  through  silent  hearts, 
And  shut  a  smile  within  mine  eyes, 
Like  one  who  for  his  home  departs. 

Come  back !   come  back !  the  love  and  grief, 
Poured  on   thy  sleep,  may  yet  be  mine, 

As  late  dews  mourn  the  fallen  leaf, 
That  on  its  sunlight  would  not  shine. 


HESPER. 

SUNSET  on  the  mountains  hoary, 

Deepens  into  night ; 
Day  hath  lost  its  crown  of  glory, 

Life  hath  lost  its  light. 

In  mine  eyes  the  tears  are  springing, 

For  thy  face  I  see  ; 
In  my  heart  its  dreams  are  singing, 

Mournful  songs  of  thee. 

All  the  sunshine  fled  from  heaven 

With  thy  closing  eyes ; 
Yet  on  me,  at  lonely  even, 

Clear  as  stars  they  rise. 

Though  the  way  be  long  and  dreary 
Down  the  mountain's  side, 

I  no  more  can  call  it  weary, 
Thou  art  there  my  bride  ! 


HESPER.  Ill 

I  behold  thy  garments  flowing, 

Snow-like,  in  the  moon ; 
See  thy  parted  lips  are  glowing, 

Red  as  flowers  in  June. 

Underneath  the  daisies  lying, 

Lost  in  dreamless  sleep ; 
Thou  hast  heard  my  nightly  crying, 

Thou  hast  left  my  sleep. 

All  the  night  in  visions  tender, 

Love  and  life  return ; 
Until  morning's  cloudy  splendor 

O'er  the  hills  shall  burn. 

Day  glides  slowly  o'er  the  meadow, 

Love  and  life  to  steal ; 
But  the  first  star's  trembling  shadow 

Brings  a  bridal  peal. 


REVE   DU  MIDI. 

WHEN  o'er  the  mountain  steeps 
The  hazy  noontide  creeps, 
And  the  shrill  cricket  sleeps 

Under  the  grass  ; 
When  soft  the  shadows  lie, 
And  clouds  sail  o'er  the  sky, 
And  the  idle  winds  go  by, 
With  the  heavy  scent  of  blossoms  as  they  pass  ; 

Then,  when  the  silent  stream 
Lapses  as  in  a  dream, 
And  the  water-lilies  gleam 

Up  to  the  sun ; 

When  the  hot  and  burdened  day 
Stops  on  its  downward  way, 
When  the  moth  forgets  to  play, 
And  the  plodding  ant  may  dream  her  toil  is  done ; 

Then,  from  the  noise  of  war, 
And  the  din  of  earth  afar, 
Like  some  forgotten  star 


REVE  DU  MIDI.  113 

Dropt  from  the  sky ; 
With  the  sounds  of  love  and  fear, 
All  voices  sad  and  dear 
Banish  to  silence  drear, 
The  willing  thrall  of  trances  sweet  I  lie. 

Some  melancholy  gale 
Breathes  its  mysterious  tale, 
Till  the  rose's  lips  grow  pale 

With  her  sighs: 
And  o'er  my  thoughts  are  cast 
Tints  of  the  vanished  past, 
Glories  that  faded  fast, 
Renewed  to  splendour  in  my  dreaming  eyes. 

As  poised  on  vibrant  wings, 
Where  his  sweet  treasure  swings, 
The  honey-lover  clings 
To  the  red  flowers  : 
So,  lost  in  vivid  light, 
So,  rapt  from  day  and  night, 
I  linger  in  delight, 
Enraptured  o'er  the  vision-freighted  hours. 


TWILIGHT. 

ALONE  I  watch  the  setting  sun 
Brighten  the  hill-tops  in  the  west, 

And  clouds  that  on  the  swift  winds  run 
To  gather  splendour  o'er  his  rest. 

Oh  !  had  I  but  those  wings  of  air, 
Across  the  mountain  heights  to  flee  ! 

Thine  eyes  should  lose  their  shade  of  care, 
Thy  weary  face  grow  bright  for  me. 

• 

Or  could  I  capture  sparks  of  fire, 
To  do  the  message  of  my  thought, 

Their  joyful  speed  no  space  should  tire, 
Till  love  and  light  for  thee  they  brought. 

But  darker,  deeper,  grows  the  night, 
And  my  sad  thoughts  more  restless  far; 

I  would  I  were  a  ray  of  light 

To  greet  thee  from  yon  lonely  star. 


TWILIGHT. 

Dear  star!    watch  gently  from  on  high, 
What  my  frail  vision  cannot  see; 

A  gentler  and  more  powerful  eye, 

Shines  through  thy  tender  gleam  for  me. 

One  heart,  o'er  mountains,  through  the  night, 
Protects  and  loves,  while  I  despair; 

He  turns  the  depths  of  gloom  to  light, 
And  gives  my  wishes  wings  of  prayer. 


DAISIES. 

FAIR  and  peaceful  daisies, 

Smiling  in  the  grass, 
Who  hath  sung  your  praises  ? 

Poets  by  you  pass, 
And  I  alone  am  left  to  celebrate  your  mass. 

In  the  summer  morning, 

Through  the  fields  ye  „  shine, 

Joyfully  adorning 

Earth  with  grace  divine, 
And  pour,  from  sunny  hearts,  fresh  gladness  into  mine. 

Lying  in  the  meadows, 

Like  the  milky  way, 
From  nocturnal  shadows 

Glad  to  fall  away, 
And  live  a  happy  life  in  the  wide  light  of  day. 

Bees  about  you  humming 
Pile  their  yellow  store, 


DAISIES.  117 

Winds  in  whispers  coming 

Teach  you  love's  sweet  lore, 
For  your  reluctant  lips  still  worshipping  the  more. 

Birds  with  music  laden 

Shower  their  songs  on  you  ; 
And  the  rustic  maiden, 

Standing  in  the  dew, 
By  your  alternate  leaves  tells  if  her  love  be  true. 

Little  stars  of  glory  ! 

From  your  amber  eyes 
No  inconstant  story 

Of  her  love  should  rise ! 

And   yet  "  He  loves  me  not ! "   is  oft   the   sad  sur- 
prise. 

Crowds  of  milk-white  blossoms ! 

Noon's  concentred   beams 
Glowing  in  your  bosoms ; 

So,  by  living  streams 

In   heaven,   I    think   the   light   of  flowers   immortal 
gleams. 

When  your  date  is  over, 
Peacefully  ye  fade, 


118  DAISIES. 

With  the  fragrant  clover 

And  sweet  grasses  laid, 
In  odors  for  a  pall  beneath  the  orchard  shade. 

Happy,  happy  daisies ! 

Would  I  were  like  you, 
Pure  from  human  praises, 

Fresh  with  morning  dew, 

And   ever  in   my  heart   to    heaven's   clear   sunshine 
true ! 


CHAMOMILE. 

Now  heart !  send  forth  thy  sweetness ! 
Crushed,  —  trampled  in  the  dust, — 
Remember  God  is  just : 
And  for  man's  incompleteness 
Let  the  soft  incense  of  thy  pity  rise : 
Make  a  burnt-offering  of  the  sacrifice  ! 

Think,  in  thy  bitter  anguish, 

Thou  hast  not  done  the  wrong,  — 
This  echo  of  a  song 
Whose  faint,  sad  minors  languish 
Against  thy  will  or  care,  shall  comfort  thee, 
"Wouldst  thou  the  wounded  or  the  weapon  be? 

Art  thou  too  weak  and  weary, 
Too  pitiless  in  pain, 
To  love  where  love  is  vain  ? 
Waste  starlight  on  the  dreary, 
The  self-lost,  and  the  cold  ?  for  such  is  one 
For  whom  thy  vernal  life  is  all  undone. 


120  CHAMOMILE. 

The  spring-forsaken  blossom, 
Drooping  its  pallid  leaves, 
Not  without  purpose   grieves ; 
For  hidden  in  its  bosom 
Lies   the  green  fruit,  —  have  patience,  trust,  and 

truth ; 
God  keeps  the  sunshine  of  thy  darkened  youth. 

Sore,  bruised,  and  bleeding 
Under  the  cruel  tread, 
Let  thy  pure  odors  spread, 
And  up  to  heaven  pleading, 
Draw  showered  forgiveness  on  the  heart  of  stone, 
More  pitiful  than  thine,  because  far  more   alone. 


RIGHTS. 

I  HEARD  a  voice  cry  through  the  night, 
Crying  from  off  some  lonely  height, 
A  gently  earnest  cry  for  Right. 

Through  the  sad  sweetness  of  that  voice 

A  stifled  echo  did  rejoice, 

As  if  the  sadness  were  of  choice. 

And  all  along  the  south-wind  spread, 
With  scents  and  dews  its  tones  were  shed, 
Shadowed  with  vagueness,  not  with  dread. 

But  gathering  more  articulate, 
Breathless  I  heard  soft   lips  relate 
The  grievance  of  their  mortal  state. 

"I  will  have  Right!   my  right  to  be 

First  in  all  love-borne  ministry ; 

The  spring  beneath  thy  roots,  O  tree  ! 


122  RIGHTS. 

"My  right,  when  toiling  and  dismay 
Oppress  the  burdened  noon  of  day, 
To  freshen  it  with  salt  sea-spray. 

"  To  be,  when  hearts  shall  fail  for  fear, 
Seeing  eclipse  of  suns  draw  near, 
A  star-shine  in  the  darkness  clear. 

"  To  be,  in  this  world-beaten  dust, 

A  still  evangelist  of  trust, 

Waving  white  wings  before  the  just. 

"  My  right  to  stand  beside  the  dead, 
With  hands  upon  the  living  head, 
Both  unto  rest  eternal  led. 


right  to  pure  child-tears  and  smiles, 
To  baby  -love  and  tender  wiles, 
Hope,  that  the  weariest  heart  beguiles. 

"  I  will  not  have  thy  place,  O  man  ! 
By  petronel  and  barbican, 
Or  reeking  in  the  battle's  van. 

"  My  strength  against  the  ruder  foe, 
I  will  be  thine  beneath  the  blow, 
My  right  to  love,  and  thine  to  know." 


"YOURS  EVER." 

No  more,  no  more !  the  words  are  vain ; 

No  longer  mine,  and  ne'er  to  be : 
The  dead  heart  cannot  live  again, 

The  stream  run  upward  from  the  sea. 

The  past  is  past,  forever  fled : 

I  lost  thee  on  a  weary  day, 
My  life's  one  prayer  was  backward  read, 

My  soul's  last  refuge  torn  away. 

Not  mine,  not  mine  !  no,  never  mine. 

What  years  shall  gather  to  their  bough 
The  sere  leaves  of  the  blasted  pine? 

Think  what  I  was  !  —  what  am  I  now  ? 

Not  God,  nor  I,  had  rent  apart 
Thy  tender  clasp  of  living  love ; 

Thine  own  hand  tore  the  trembling  heart, 
That  vainly  prayed,  and  vainly  strove. 


124  "YOURS  EVER." 

No,  never  mine !  all  angels  keep 
Their  faithful  watch  about  thy  way, 

Around  thy  steps,  above  thy  sleep  ! 
To  God  I  give  thee  while  I  may. 

Forever  His,  but  never  mine. 

Ah  !  when  this  fearful  life  shall  flee, 
Wrapt  safely  in  His  rest  divine, 

I  shall  not  even  lament  for  thee  ! 


PRAYER. 

OH,  Love  divine,  ineffable ! 

Help  the  weak  heart  that  strays  from  thee ! 
And  battling  with  the  hosts  of  hell, 

Doubts  or  despairs  of  victory: 

For  Thou  hast  died  upon  the  tree, 
Thine  anguish  poured  in  bloody  sweat, 
And  can  thy  yearning  heart  forget 

The  first-fruits  of  that  agony  ? 

O  Lord,  in  glory,  think  on  me ! 

Thy  tenderness  no  mother  knows, 
Not  she  who  sees  her  darling  pine, 

And  weeps  that  dying  shadows  close 
Above  the  lamb  she  knows  is  thine ; 
But  Thou,  my  God,  art  all  divine ! 

Thy  banished  shall  return  again  ; 

Thy  life  poured  out  like  summer  rain  — 
Those  dying  pangs  exchanged  for  mine  — 
Are  not  an  alien's  birth-right  sign. 


126  PRAYER. 

I  know  that  from  the  depths  of  sin, 

The  uttermost  abyss  of  woe, 
Thine  arm  my  trembling  soul  shall  win, 

Thy  piercing  eyes  thy  child  shall  know. 

Though  mortal  love  forget  to  flow  — 
Though  mortal  faith  grow  cold  and  die  — 
Thy  love  is  called  eternity, 

Thy  truth  is  morning's  orient  glow, 

And  wide  as  space  shall  ever  grow. 

Come,  prince  of  darkness,  with  thy  bands ! 
Their  leaguered  host  a  child  defies, 

For  He  who  holds  me  in  his  hands 
Shall  like  a  stern  avenger  rise, 
And  turn  on  thee  those  heavenly  eyes 

That  tears  of  pity  shed  for  me ; 

But  burn  with  judgment  over  thee 

And  those  who  dare  his  love  despise,  — 
Then  stoop  and  bear  me  to  the  skies. 


VI   ET   ARMIS. 

MY  soul  be  strong !  confront  thy  life, 
Nor  feebly  moan  with  weak  complaint; 

Arouse  to  wage  the  mortal  strife, 

Thou  shrinking  coward,  pale  and  faint ! 

Look  up  at  truth's  unchanging  face  ; 

That  brow,  though  stern,  is  yet  serene ; 
And  sometimes,  for  the  heart  of  grace, 

On  those  calm  lips  a  smile  hath  been. 

The  warrior  on  the  battle-field 
Lingers  no  more  to  look  behind, 

But  raises  high  his  bossy  shield, 
And  casts  his  banner  to  the  wind. 

It  will  not  serve  thee  to  delay ; 

Shall  the  wide  ocean  cease  to  roar, 
Because  thy  wild  and  dangerous  way 

Lies  to  its  dimly  visioned  shore  ? 


128  VI  ET  ARMIS. 

Shake  off  thy  dreams ;  let  faith  and  prayer 
Light  the  drear  way:  thy  path  is  strait, 

Contagion  fills  the  misty  air, 

And  clustering  snares  around  thee  wait. 

Hope  not  for  succor  from  below ! 

Stars  shine  from  heaven,  but  shine  at  night. 
Be  stout  of  heart,  come  weal  or  woe ; 

Forward,  —  and  God  defend  the  Right  I 


PSYCHE  TO  EROS. 

SURVIVE,  O  Love,  this  sad  estate ; 

Why  shouldst  thou  with  the  sunshine  fly  ? 
Hast  thou  no  more  enduring  date 

Than  out  of  one  despair  to  die? 
The  fiercest  tempest  only  brings 
At  worst  a  drenching  to  thy  wings. 

Thou  art  not  such  a  mortal  thing, 

That  any  agonies  of  pain, 
Which  from  thy  trampled  offerings  spring, 

Can  crush  thee  into  dust  again. 
Look  with  clear  eyes,  and  lift  thy  head, 
Bruised,  wounded,  bleeding,  but  not  dead. 

Not  dead,  —  there  lives  no  mortal  hand, 
However  mighty,  strong  as  thou ; 

No  human  malice  ever  planned 

A  shadow  that  could  soil  thy  brow. 

Crowned  with  thy  sure   divinity, 

Arise  and  reign  ;  the  shadows  flee ! 
9 


INDOLENCE. 

INDOLENT,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent ; 

So  is  the  grass  growing  tenderly,  slowly ; 

So  is  the  violet  fragrant  and  lowly, 
Drinking  in  quietness,  peace,  and  content  ; 

So  is  the  bird  on  the  light  branches  swinging, 

Idly  his  carol  of  gratitude  singing, 
Only  on  living  and  loving  intent. 

Indolent,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent ; 

So  is  the  cloud  overhanging  the  mountain  ; 

So  is  the  tremulous  wave  of  a  fountain, 
Uttering  softly  its  silvery  psalm. 

Nerve  and  sensation  in  quiet  reposing, 

Silent  as  blossoms  the  night-dew  is  closing, 
But  the  full  heart  beating  strongly  and  calm. 

Indolent,  indolent !  yes,  I  am  indolent, 
If  it  be  idle  to  gather  my  pleasure 
Out  of  creation's  uncoveted  treasure, 

Midnight  and  morning,  by  forest  and  sea, 


INDOLENCE.  131 

Wild  with  the  tempest's  sublime  exultation, 
Lonely  in  Autumn's  forlorn  lamentation, 
Hopeful  and  happy  with  Spring  and  the  bee. 

Indolent,  indolent !  are  ye  not  indolent  ? 
Thralls  of  the  earth  and  its  usages  weary, 
Toiling  like  gnomes  where    the  darkness  is  dreary, 

Toiling  and  sinning  to  heap  up  your  gold ! 
Stifling  the  heavenward  breath  of  devotion, 
Crushing  the  freshness  of  every  emotion  ; 

Hearts  like  the  dead  which  are  pulseless  and  cold ! 

Indolent,  indolent !  art  thou  not  indolent  ? 
Thou  who  art  living  unloving  and  lonely, 
Wrapped  in  a  pall  that  will  cover  thee  only, 

Shrouded  in  selfishness,  piteous  ghost ! 

Sad  eyes  behold  thee,  and  angels  are  weeping 
O'er  thy  forsaken  and  desolate  sleeping  ; 

Art  thou  not  indolent  ?  art  thou  not  lost  ? 


NOCTURN. 
I. 

NIGHT  hovering  o'er  the  languid  lily-bell, 

Pours  shade  and  sleep ; 
Dim  loitering  brooks  their  dripping  rosaries  tell ; 

And  shadows  creep, 

Like  ghosts  that  haunt  a  dream,  through  forests   still 
and  deep. 

Cool  odors  sigh  across  the  rustling  leaves 

In  dew  distilled  ; 
Far  through  the  hills  some  falling  river  grieves; 

All  earth  is  stilled, 

Save   where   a   dreaming   bird   with   sudden   song   is 
thrilled. 

The  sunshine,  tangled  in  the  chestnut  boughs, 

In  darkness  dies ; 
Flowers,  with  shut  eyelids,  pay  their  peaceful  vows, 

And  daylight  lies 
Faint  in  the  fading  West  to  see  the  stars  arise. 


NOCTURN.  133 

Sleep,  weary  soul !   the  folding  arms  of  night 

For  thee  are  spread  ; 
Her  fresh,  cool  kisses  on  thy  brow  alight  ; 

Droop,  aching  head! 

Receive  the  slumberous   dew  these   gracious   heavens 
have  shed. 

Thy  day  is  long,  thy  noontide  hot  and  sere; 

But  eve  hath  come 
To  sing  low  anthems  in  thy  tranced  ear 

Like  welcomes  home, 

And  prelude   this   brief  sleep  with   songs   of  one   to 
come. 


NOCTURN. 
II. 

DEAR  night,  from  the  hills  return! 

Darkness  hath  passed  away, 
And  I  see  the  flush  of  morning  burn, 

Red  o'er  the  mountains  gray. 
My  life  is  like  a   song 

That  a  bird  sings  in  its  sleeping, 
Or  a  hidden  stream  that  flows  along 

To  the  sound  of  its  own  soft  weeping. 

Sunlight  is  made  for  care, 

For  the  weary  languid  day ; 
When  the  locust  cymbals  beat  the  air, 

And  the  hot  winds  cease  to  play. 
But  night  rolls  dark  and  still, 

Oblivion's  fabled  river, 
In  whose  sweet  silence  the  restless  will 

Sleeps,  and  would  sleep  forever. 

Shrill  in  the  rustled  maize 
The  boding  cricket  cries ; 


NOCTUEN.  135 

And  through  the  East,  where  the  dawn  delays, 

Seaward  the  wild  duck  flies. 
Noon  comes  with  brazen  glare, 

Stifling  earth's  song  with  splendor, 
To  drink  the  mists  from  the  glittering  air, 

And  dew  from  the  blosr-oms  tender. 

But  when  the  night  comes  on, 

"With  cool  and  quiet  sighs, 
To  shed  fond  thoughts  on  the  soul  alone, 

And  rest  in  the  tear-stained  eyes, — 
I  lie  beneath  the  stars, 

And  life  from  their  light  is  given, 
Till  my  dreams  escape  from  mortal  wars, 

And  sleep  on  the  shore  of  heaven. 


THE   SUTTEE. 

COME,  thou  dead  image,  to  thy  rest ! 

The  flashing  embers  wait  for  thee, 
And  heaped  above  my  panting  breast 

Lie  faggots  fit  thy  couch  to  be. 

I  know  thee  now,  cold  shape  of  clay, 

Whose  life  was  but  a  thrill  from  mine !  — 

One  gasp,  and  undeceiving  day 

Showed  the  base  thing  no  more  divine. 

Lo !  I  have  framed  a  costly  pyre ; 

There  lie  those  dreams  with  wandering  eyes, 
And  hopes,  too  ashen  now  for  fire, 

Strew  pathways  to  the  sacrifice. 

I  am  a  widow,  and  shall  I 

Linger  a  living  death  away  ? 
Here  on  the  dead,  I,  too,  will  die, 

Quick !  lest  the  flesh  refuse  to  stay. 


THE   SUTTEE.  137 

Burn !  burn  !  glare  upward  to  the  skies, 
Paint  the  low  hills  and  creeping  night  ; 

Louder  the  shrieking  south-wind  cries, 
And  terror  speeds  the  lessening  light. 

Slowly  these  eager  tongues  aspire  ; 

I  shudder,  though  they  set  me  free. 
Go,  coward  senses,  to  the  fire  — 

But  the  wing'd  soul,  oh  God !  to  Thee ! 


IMPLORA  PACE. 

WIND,  that  sighest  over  the  snow,    . 

Mocking  the  sunshine  cold  and  gay, 
I  reecho  thy  voice  of  woe, 

Carry  me  on  thy  wings  away ! 

Mist,  that  stretchest  soft  and  far 
Over  the  mountains  a  purple  haze, 

Like  thy  shadow  my  sad  thoughts  are, 
Hide  me  safely  from  mortal  gaze ! 

"Waves,  that  lashing  in  ceaseless  chime, 
Beat  the  earth  till  its  rocks  are  sand, 

Take  on  your  tide  this  lingering  time, 
Or  bear  its  slave  to  a  gentler  strand. 

Leaf,  that  hurriest  madly  by, 

Sport  and  spoil  of  the  eager  blast : 

So  from  memory  I  would  fly, 
So  I  cannot  escape  the  past. 


IMPLORA  PACE.  139 

Blossoms,  dead  in  your  summer  home, 

Sweet  no  longer,  forgotten  and  lost, 
Shall  the  withered  heart  to  your  silence  come  ? 

Is  there  peace  in  the  blight  of  frost  ? 


NEW  MOON. 

ONCE,  when  the  new  moon  glittered 

So  slender  in  the  West, 
I  looked  across  my  shoulder, 

And  a  wild  wish  stirred  my  breast. 

Over  my  white,  right  shoulder 
I  looked  at  the  silver  horn, 

And  wished  a  wish  at  even 
To  come  to  pass  in  the  morn. 

Whenever  the  new  moon  glittered, 

So  slender  and  so  fine, 
I  looked  across  my  shoulder, 

And  wished  that  wish  of  mine ! 

Now,  when  the  West  is  rosy, 

And  the  snow-wreaths  blush  below, 

And  I  see  the  light  white  crescent 
Float  downward,  soft  and  slow; 


NEW   MOON.  141 

I  never  look  over  my  shoulder, 

As  I  used  to  look  before ; 
For  my  heart  is  older  and  colder, 

And  now  I  wish  no  more ! 


DECEMBER  XXXI. 

THERE  goes  an  old  Gaffer  over  the  hill, 

Thieving,  and  old,  and  gray ; 
He  walks  the  green  world,  his  wallet  to  fill, 

And  carries  good  spoil  away. 

Into  his  bag  he  popped  a  king ; 

After  him  went  a  friar, 
Many  a  lady,  with  gay  gold  ring, 

Many  a  knight  and  squire. 

He  carried  my  true-love  far  away, 

He  stole  the  dog  at  my  door  ; 
The  wicked  old  Gaffer,  thieving  and  gray, 

He'll  never  come  by  any  more. 

My  little  darling,  white  and  fair, 

Sat  in  the  door  and  spun  ; 
He  caught  her  fast  by  her  silken  hair, 

Before  the  child  could  run. 


DECEMBER  XXXI.  143 

He  stole  the  florins  out  of  my  purse, 

The  sunshine  out  of  mine  eyes ; 
He  stole  my  roses,  and,  what  is  worse, 

The  gray  old  Gaffer  told  lies. 

He  promised  fair  when  he  came  by, 

And  laughed  as  he  slipped  away, 
For  every  promise  turned  out  a  lie ; 

But  his  tale  is  over  to-day. 

Good-by,  old  Gaffer !  you'll  come  no  more, 

You've  done  your  worst  for  me. 
The  next  gray  robber  will  pass  my  door, 

There's  nothing  to  steal  or  see ! 


LOTOS-LAND. 

OH,  land  beloved !  oh,  land  unknown ! 
By  what  blue  Rhine  or  rapid  Rhone, 
Or  any  river  man  hath  known, 

Shall   I  arrive  at  thee  ? 
Or  by  what  mighty  trackless  seas, 
Where  the  unwearied  northern  breeze 
From  dumb  and  frozen  cavern   flees 

Triumphant,  to  be  free. 

Or  by  what  desert,  red  and  vast, 
Breathing  the  fevered  tropic  blast, 
Shall  my  too  lingering  steps'  at  last 

Attain  to  thy  sweet  shore? 
Oh,  plains  serene !     Oh,  rivers  rolled 
Like  babbling  dreams  o'er  sands  of  gold! 
Fair  birds  that  do  your  pinions  fold, 

And  singing,  cease  to  soar ! 

Skies,  where  such  slumbrous  mists  are  shed ! 
The  heart  forgets  it  ever  bled, 
And  sleep  lies  on  the  lonely  head, 
Forgetting  and  forgot. 


LOTOS-LAND.  145 

There  nothing  has   been  or  shall  be, 
But  all  things  are  eternally. 
The  tired  soul  may  not  think  nor  see 
Such  quiet  rules  the  spot ; 

For  there  is  neither  hope  nor  fear, 
No  hated  thing  and  nothing  dear, 
Nor  any  troubled  atmosphere, 

Nor  anything  but   rest. 
Such  utter  sleep,  such  thoughtlessness, 
As   might  a  mortal  life  redress 
And  set  aside  its   deadly  stress, 

From  even  a  woman's  breast. 

Oh,  land,  dear  land !    sweet  visioned  shore, 
That  no  man's  footsteps  may  explore, 
Nor  any  but  a  fool  deplore, 

Yet  would  I  slept  in  thee ! 
The  jester  tires  of  cap  and  bells, 
The  disenchanted  laughs  at  spells, 
The  past  all  future  lies  foretells. 

Dear  land,  come  true  for   me ! 


10 


THE  LAST  REVOLUTION. 

HURRAH  !   the  mob  is  up  again ! 
I  hear  its  distant  rush  and  roar, 
Like  mad  seas  surging  on  the  shore ; 

But  this  sea  shall  not  surge  in  vain. 

Shout,  bondsmen  all,  for  freedom's  reign  — 
Hurrah ! 

A  thousand,  thousand  hurrying  feet, 
Resistless,  heedless,  trampling  by : 
From  the  black  East  a  shrieking  cry  ; 

The  sound  flies  fast,  the  winds  are  fleet; 

Hurrah !   this  liberty  is  sweet. 
Hurrah ! 

Hark !    is't  the  roar  of  cannonades  ? 
A  sullen  thunder  from  afar  — 
The  grim,   exulting  psalm  of  war, 

When  deep  in  blood  the  victor  wades : 

No !    'tis  the  crashing  barricades. 
Hurrah ! 


THE  LAST  REVOLUTION.  147 

A  shattered  throne  lies  on  the  plain ; 

Dead,  at  its  foot,  the  hoary  king. 

Shout  for  the  gay  republic  —  Spring ! 
Hurrah !    it  hath  not  come  in  vain, 
This  revolution  of  the  rain. 
Hurrah ! 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL. 

How  the  wind  yells  on  the  Gulf  and  prairie  ! 

How  it  rattles  in  the  windows  wide ! 
And  the  rats  squeak  like  our  old  ship's  rigging: 

I  shall  die  with  the  turn  of  tide. 

I've  had  a  rough  life  on  the  ocean, 

And  a  tough  life  on  the  land  ; 
Now  I'm  like  a  broken  hulk  in  the  dock-yard,  — 

I  can't  stir  foot  nor  hand. 

There  are  green  trees  in  the  Salem  graveyard ; 

By  the  meeting-house  steps   they  grow  ; 
And  there  they  put  ray  poor  old  mother, 

The  third  in   the  leeward  row. 

There's  the  low  red  house  on  the  corner, 
"With  a  slant  roof  and  a   well-sweep  behind, 

And  yellow-headed  fennel  in  the  garden,  — 
How  I  see  it  when  I  go  blind ! 


IN  THE  HOSPITAL.  149 

I  wish  I  had  a  mug  of  cold  water 

From  the  bottom  of  that  old  curb-well. 

I  wish  my  mother's  face  was  here  alongside, 
While  I  hear  that  tolling  bell ! 

There's  a  good  crop  of  corn  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  biggest  boy  a'n't  there  to  hoe  ; 

They'll  get  in  the  apples  and  the  pumpkins, 
But  I've  done  my  last  chores  below. 

Don't  you  hear  the  Norther  risin',  doctor? 

How  it  yells  and  hollers,  far  and  wide ! 
And  the  moon's  a  shinin'  on  that  graveyard, — 

Hold  on !     I'm  agoin'  with  the  tide. 


A  ROSARY. 

ROSES,  roses,  roses, 

All  the  world  over; 
Daisies  in  the  mowing, 

On  the  hill-side  clover; 
But  the  sweet  sad  roses 

And  the  mad  bee-lover 
Come   in  June. 

Roses,  roses,  roses, 

Red  in  the  grasses, 
Snowy  in  the  garden. 

When  the  hot  sun  passes 
Then  the  singing  summer  dies, 

And  snow  the  rose  surpasses, 
In  the  moon. 

Oh,  the  fair  sad  roses ! 

Sad  for  their  loving, 
Left  alone  to  rain-drops, 

When  the  bee  goes   roving, 


A  ROSARY.  151 

And  their  honey-sweet  lips 
To  no  long  kiss  moving, 
Only  die ! 

Oh,  the  love-red  roses ! 

With  their  golden  centres, 
Sweeter  than  spices ; 

Where  the  south-wind  enters, 
And  on  the  bee's  track 

The  butterfly  ventures 
With  his  lie! 


GRAY. 

IN   the  dead   calm  of  night,  when   the   stars   are   all 

shining, 

The  deep,   silent  shadows  lie  cold  o'er  my  head, 
And    the   wind,   like    a   sad   spirit,  round  the   house 

pining, 
Calls  up  from  their  quiet  the  tones  of  the  dead. 

Almost  I  can  see  them  who  rustle  the  curtain, 
And  flit  past  my  cheek  like  a  cold   waft  of  air ; 

I  hear  their  faint  sighs  and  their  footsteps  uncertain, 
I  need  not  a  vision  to  know  they  are  there. 

They  call  from  the  past  all   its  bitterest  warnings, 
And  trail  the  gray  ghosts  through  my  shuddering 
soul, 

The  nights  of  lone  grief  and  the  desolate  mornings, 
The  long  days  of  anguish  that  mocked  my  control. 

Then  comes  the  still  angel  who  watches  me   ever, 
And  numbers  the  tears  of  my  sleepless  despair, 


GRAY.  153 

And  for  each  sullen  drop  that  assuages  its  fever, 
The  angel  stoops  softly,  and  kisses  my  hair. 

And  at  dawn  I  perceive  in  those  shadowy  tresses 
Bright  silvery  threads,  as  they  fall  o'er  my  breast, 

And  I  know  where  the  angel  has  left  his  caresses, 
A  promise  and  pledge  that  he  hastens  my  rest. 


AT  LAST. 

THE  old,  old  story  o'er  again  — 
Made  up  of  passion,  parting,  pain. 
He  fought  and  fell,  to  live  in  fame, 
But  dying  only  breathed  her  name. 

Some  tears,  most  sad  and  innocent ; 
Some  rebel  thoughts,  but  all  unmeant ; 
Then,  with  a  silent,  shrouded  heart, 
She  turned  to  life  and  played  her  part. 

Another  man,  who  vowed  and  loved, 
Her  patient,  pitying  spirit  moved, 
Sweet  hopes  the  dread  of  life  beguiled,  — 
The  lost  love  sighed,  —  the  new  love  smiled. 

So  she  was  wed  and  children  bore, 
And  then  her  widowed  sables  wore  ; 
Her  eyes  grew  dim,  her  tresses  gray, 
And  dawned  at  length  her  dying  day. 


AT  LAST.  155 

Her  children  gather,  —  some  are  gone, 
Asleep  beneath  a  lettered  stone  ; 
The  living,  cold  with  grief  and  fear, 
Stoop  down  her  whispering  speech  to  hear. 

No  child  she  calls,  no  husband  needs. 
At  death's  sharp  touch  the  old  wound  bleeds: 
"  Call  him  ! "  she  cried,  —  her  first  love's  name 
Leapt  from  her  heart  with  life's  last  flame. 


MIDNIGHT. 

THE  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 

The  snow  hissed  cruelly, 
All  night  I  heard  the  baffled  cry 

Of  mariners  on  the  sea. 

I  saw  the  icy  shrouds  and  sail, 

The  slippery,  reeling  deck, 
And  white-caps  dancing  pale  with  flame, 

The  corpse-lights  of  the  wreck. 

The  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 

And  on  its  snowy  way, 
That  hissed  and  hushed  like  rushing  sand, 

My  soul  fled  far  away. 

The  snow  went  toward  the  morning  hills 

In  curling  drifts  of  white, 
But  I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  God 

Through  all  the  howling  night. 


MIDNIGHT.  157 

I  went  up  to  the  gates  of  God. 

The  angel  waiting  there, 
Who  keeps  the  blood-red  keys  of  Heaven, 

Stooped  down  to  hear  my  prayer. 

"Dear  keeper  of  the  keys  of  Heaven, 

A  thousand  souls  to-night 
Are  torn  from  life  on  land  and  sea, 

While  life  was  yet  delight. 

"  But  I  am  tired  of  storms  and  pain ; 

Sweet  angel,  let  me  in ! 
And  send  some  strong  heart  back  again, 

To  suffer  and  to  sin." 

The  angel  answered  —  stern  and  slow  — 

"  How  darest  thou  be  dead, 
While  God  seeks  dust  to  make  the  street 

Where  happier  men  may  tread? 

"  Go  back,  and  eat  earth's  bitter  herbs, 

Go,  hear  its  dead-bells  toll  ; 
Lie  speechless  underneath  their  feet, 

Who  tread  across  thy  soul. 

"  Go,  learn  the  patience  of  the  Lord 
Whose  righteous  judgments  wait ; 


158  MIDNIGHT. 

Thy  murdered  cry  may  cleave  the  ground, 
But  not  unbar  His  gate." 

Right  backward,  through  the  whirling  snow 

Back,  on  the  battling  wind, 
My  soul  crept  slowly  to  its  lair, 

The  body  left  behind. 

The  west-wind  blows,  the  west-wind  blew, 
There  are  dead  men  on  the  sea, 

And  landsmen  dead,  in  shrouding  drifts  — 
But  there  is  life  in  me. 


«CHE  SARA   SARA." 

SHE  walked  in  the  garden 

And  a  rose  hung  on  a  tree, 
Red  as  heart's   blood, 

Fair  to  see. 
"  Ah,  kind  south-wind, 

Bend  it  to  me!" 
But  the  wind  laughed  softly, 

And  blew  to  the  sea. 

High  on  the  branches, 

Far  above  her  head, 
Like  a  king's  cup 

Round,  and  red. 
"I  am  comely," 

The  maiden  said,         • 
"I  have  gold  like  shore-sand, 

I  wish  I  were  dead ! 

"  Blushes  and  rubies 
Are  not  like  a  rose, 


160  "CHE  SABA  SABA." 

Through  its  deep  heart 

Love-life  flows. 
Ah,  what  splendors 

Can  give  me  repose ! 
What  is  all  the  world  worth? 

I  cannot  reach  my  rose." 


GONE. 

A  SILENT,  odor-laden  air, 

From  heavy  branches  dropping  balm ; 
A  crowd  of  daisies  milky  fair, 

That  sunward  turn  their  faces  calm. 
So  rapt,  a  bird  alone  may  dare 

To  stir  their  rapture  with  his  psalm. 

So  falls  the  perfect  day  of  June 
To  moonlit  eve,  from  dewy  dawn, 

With  light  winds  rustling  through  the  noon, 
And  conscious  roses  half  withdrawn, 

In  blushing  buds  that  wake  too  soon, 
To  flaunt  their  hearts  on  every  lawn. 

The  wide  content  of  summer's  bloom, 
The  peaceful  glory  of  its  prime  ; 

Yet  over  all  a  brooding  gloom, 
A  desolation  born  of  time  ; 

As  distant  storm-caps  tower  and  loom, 

And  shroud  the  sun  with  heights  sublime. 
11 


162  GONE. 

For  they  are  vanished  from  the  trees, 
And  vanished  from  the  thronging  flowers, 

Whose  tender  tones  thrilled  every  breeze 
And  sped  with  mirth  the  flying  hours. 

No  form  nor  shape  my  sad  eye  sees  ; 
No  faithful  spirit  haunts  these  bowers. 

Alone,  alone,  in  sun  or  dew! 

One  fled  to  heaven,  of  earth  afraid  ; 
And  one  to  earth,  with  eyes  untrue 

And  lips  of  faltering  passion  strayed. 
Nor  shall  the  strenuous  years  renew 

On  any  bough  these  leaves  that  fade. 

Long  summer-days  shall  come  and  go  — 
No  Summer  brings  the  dead  again. 

I  listen  for  that  voice's  flow 

And  ache  at  heart  with  deepening  pain. 

And  one  fair  face  no  more  I  know, 
Still  living  sweet,  but  sweet  in  vain. 


CAIN. 

HERE  it  found  me  —  "Where  is  thy  brother? 

Out  of  the  very  heavens  it  fell, 
Sharp  as  a  peal  of  rattling  thunder, 

Then  the  echo  leapt  up  from  hell. 

He  —  Jehovah  —  "  Where  is  thy  brother  ?  " 
I  knew,  He  knew  —  the  devil  laughed. 

He  that  gave  me  the  staff  to  fell  him. 
So  the  archer  reviled  the  shaft ! 

Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother,   my  brother! 

Thy  blood  panted  and  throbbed  in  me. 
We  were  children  of  one  mother, 

Little  children  upon  her  knee. 

Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother,  my  brother ! 

Sad-eyed,  tender,  good,  and'  true. 
Never  more  on  hill  or  valley, 

Never  tracked  through  the  morning  dew. 


164  CAIN. 

I  held  up  the  staff  before  me. 

Down  it  crashed  on  the  gentle  head. 
One  live  look  of  wondering  sorrow, 

One  sharp  quiver  —  that  was  dead. 

Thou !    Thou  gavest  me  a  brother  — 
Gave  me  a  life  to  cast  away  — 

Hast  Thou  in  heaven  such  another? 
Hast  Thou  in  heaven  a  sword  to  slay  ? 

Hasten  Thou  —  "Where  is  thy  brother?" 
Voice  my  curst  lips  dare  not  name. 

Hasten  !   write  with  thy  fiery  finger 
On  my  forehead  the  murderer's  shame. 

I  am  doomed  —  alone  forever. 

Yet,  so  long  as  the  slow  years  part, 
Thou  shalt  brand  new  Cains  with  curses, 

Not  on  the  forehead,  but  in  the  heart ! 


EBB  AND  FLOW. 

'Tis  something  to  have  turned  the  tide 
That  ebbed  and  ebbed  and  slid  away, 

Till  all  the  sands  lay  bare  and  wide, 
A  dreary  level,  bleak  and  gray. 

The  hidden  rocks,  the  treacherous  shore, 
Show  black  and  steep  above  the  sea ; 

The  maddened  breakers  rave  no  more, 
Full  fast  the  outward  billows  flee. 

Rest  for  thy  moment,  turning  tide  ! 

Then  creep  and  ripple  on  the  sand. 
I  fear  no  more  thy  waters  wide, 

I  know  the  dangers  of  the  strand. 

Now  let  thy  white-caps  foam  and  flow, 
The  soul  assured  may  laugh  at  fear, 

And  bear  serene  the  heaviest  woe, 
So  that  its  utmost  depths  appear. 


MAY. 

THERE'S  a  bluebird  sits  on  the  apple-tree  bough, 

Singing  merrily  and  gay. 
Come,  little  blossoms,  the  Spring's  here  now, 

And  the  sun  shines  warm  all  day. 

Fast  asleep  in  the  leaves  and  grass, 

Don't  you  hear  the  quick  rain  ? 
And  the  winds  that  whisper  as  they  pass, 

"The  dear  Spring's  here  again." 

Push  your  soft  leaves  out  of  the  ground, 

Open  your  mist-blue  eyes, 
Hear  the  brook  with  its  singing  sound, 

Look  at  the  sunny  skies. 

All  the  drifts  of  the  winter  snow 

Were  frightened  and  fled  away. 
They  left  their  place  for  the  grass  to  grow, 

And  the  merry  moths  to  play. 


MAY.  167 

Red  buds  shine  on  the  maple-tree, 

The  trailing  May-blooms  fair 
Under  their  green  leaves  peep  at  me, 

For  the  Spring  has  kissed  them  there. 

• 

Come,  little  blossoms,  you  sleep  too  long! 

Purple  and  white  and  blue, 
Open  your  buds  to  hear  my  song, 

The  honey-bee  waits  for  you. 


NON   SEQUITUR. 

NEW,  grassy  scents,  stir  everywhere, 

And  soft  the  southern  winds  complain: 

.  Are  these  slow  dews  dropped  out  of  air  ? 

And  are  they  tears,  or  are  they  rain  ? 

Some  vague  and  sweet  philosophy 

"With  flattering  love-lips  made  reply,  — 

"  Is  not  the  omen  good  to  thee  ? 
Both  have  their  harvest  by-and-by." 

Then  answered  my  indignant  heart  — 
"  The  rain  is  fresh,  the  rain  is  cold, 

What  wonder  if  the  blossoms  start 
When  God  bestows  it  on  the  mould ! 

"  But  hot  and  bitter  tears  of  pain, 
The  wild  result  of  desperate  hours, 

What  harvests  black  of  blasted  grain 
Should  follow  such  unblessed  showers  ? 


NON  SEQUITUR.  169 

"  Go  to,  sweet  voice !    leave  men  to  lie. 

The  fond  analogies  you  draw 
Blazon  their  own  futility, — 

Who  judges  man  by  nature's  law  ?  " 


HERE. 

SWEET  summer-night,  beside  the  sea, 
Cast  all  thy  sweet  life  over  me ! 
Thy  silence  and  serenity, 

Thy  healing  and  content; 
The  rushing  waves  that  fall  and  break 
Unutterable  music  make, 
And  words  that  no  man  ever  spake 

Are  to  its  measure  lent. 

The  salt  wind  kisses  into  rest 

Both  languid  eye  and  fevered  breast, 

The  cool  gray  rock,  with  sea-weeds  drest, 

Gives  shadow,  still  with  strength ; 
The  bitter  and  baptismal  sea 
With  living  water  sprinkles  me, 
Slow  patience  sets  her  bondsman  free, 

And  blesses  him  at  length. 

There  is  a  time  in  every  tide 
When  surf  and  billow  both  subside, 


HERE.  171 

And  on  the  outward  current  glide 

Both  shark  and  pirate  sail ; 
The  shipwrecked  sailor,  cast  ashore, 
Perceives  afar  that  lessening  roar, 
And  gives  one  desperate  struggle  more. 

Ah  !  shall  that  struggle  fail  ? 


MONOTROPA. 

September  5,  1857. 

LOVES  serene,  uncarnate  Graces ! 

Born  of  pure  dreams  in  lonely  places, 

Where  the  black  untrodden  earth 

Rejects  the  dancing  sunshine's  mirth, 

And  slow  leaves,  dropping  through  the  wood, 

Stir  to  sound  the  solitude. 

Through  what  tranquil,  odorous  airs, 

Undisturbed  by  sighs  or  prayers, 

Paler  than  pale  alabaster 

Wrought  to  life  by  some  old  master, 

Did  ye  into  vision  rise, 

And  nocturnal  moths  surprise  ? 

Clustered  in  undraperied  whiteness, 
Pierced  by  stars  to  lucent  brightness, 
Cooler  than  a  baby's  lips, 
Pure  as  dew  that  nightly  drips, 


MONOTROPA.  173 

Utterly  intact  and  calm, 

Cold  to  summer's  rapturous  balm, 

So  divine  that  in  ye  lingers 

A  shuddering  dread  of  mortal  fingers, 

Though  their  tips  be  pink  and  fine, 

Under  the  caress  ye  pine, 

Blackened  with  the  passion-fever 

That  your  cool  bells  shun  forever. 

Sweetest  souls  of  beauty-lovers, 
Above  your  cups  the  gold  bee  hovers, 
In  sequestered  maze  and  awe, 
Repelled  by  instinct's  sacred  law ; 
Knowing  well  no  sweetness  lies 
In  your  frosted  chalices. 
Never  bird,  nor  bee,  nor  moth, 
Inebriate  with  sunny  sloth, 
Dare  intrude  on  hallowed  ground, 
Cease  thyself,  vain  rhythmic  sound ! 


EXOGENESIS. 

THE  curving  beach  and  shining  bay, 

Stretch  from  the  cliff-foot  far  away, 

Where  sailing  dreams   of  ships   go  by 

And  trace  their  spars  against  the   sky. 

A  belt  of  woodland,   dense  and   dark, 

The  distant  beacon's  flashing  spark, 

The  moth-white   sails  that   wing-and-wing 

Up  from  the  purple  ocean  spring ;  — 

One  and  all,  in  the  perfect  hour, 

Open  to  life  its  perfect  flower; 

Though  the  ardent  rose  is  dim  and  dead, 

Though  the  cool  Spring-daisies  all  are  fled, 

The  lily  unfolds  its  tintless   calm 

And  the  golden  anthers  are  spiced  with  balm. 

Come,   my   soul,  from  thy  silent   cell ! 
Know  the  healing  of  Nature's  spell. 
The  soft  wild   waves   that  rush   and  leap, 
Sing  one  song  from  the  hoary  deep  ; 


EXOGENESIS.  175 

The  south-wind  knows  its  own  refrain 

As  it  speeds  the  cloud  o'er  heaven's  blue  main. 

"  Lose   thyself,  thyself  to  win : 

Grow  from  without  thee,  not  within." 

Leave  thy  thought  and  care*  alone, 

Let  the  dead  for  the  dead  make  moan  ; 

Gather  from  earth  and  air  and   sea 

The  pulseless  peace  they  keep  for  thee. 

Ring  on  ring  of  sight  and  sound 

Shall   hide  thy  heart  in  a  calm   profound,  — 

Where  the  works  of  men  and  the  ways  of  earth 

Shall  never  enter  with  tears  or  mirth, 

And  the  love  of  kind  shall  kinder  be 

From   nature  than  humanity. 


CAPTIVE. 

THE  Summer  comes,  the  Summer  dies, 
Red  leaves  whirl  idly  from  the  tree, 

But  no  more  cleaving  of  the  skies, 
No  southward  sunshine  waits  for  me! 

You  shut  me  in  a  gilded  cage, 

You  deck  the  bars  with  tropic  flowers, 
Nor  know  that  freedom's  living  rage 

Defies  you  through  the  listless  hours. 

What  passion  fierce,  what  service  true, 
Could  ever  such  a  wrong  requite  ? 

What  gift,  or  clasp,  or  kiss  from  you 
Were  worth  an  hour   of  soaring  flight  ? 

I   beat  my   wings  against  the  wire, 
I  pant  my  trammelled  heart  away  ; 

The  fever  of  one  mad   desire 

Burns  and  consumes  me  all  the  day. 


CAPTIVE.  177 

What  care  I  for  your  tedious  love, 
For  tender  word  or  fond  caress? 

I  die  for  one  free  flight  above, 
One  rapture  of  the  wilderness ! 


12 


DOUBT. 

THE  bee  knows  honey, 

And  the  blossoms  light, 
Day  the  dawning, 

Stars  the  night; 
The  slow,  glad  river 

Knows  its  sea ; 
Is  it  true,  Love, 

I  know  not  thee? 

When  the  Summer 

Brings  snow-drifts  piled, 
When  the  planets 

Go  wandering  wild, 
When  the  old  hill-tops 

Valleys  be, — 
Tell  me  true,  Love, 

Shall  I  know  thee? 

Where'er  I  wander, 
By  sea  or  shore, 


DOUBT.  179 

A  dim,  sweet  vision 

Flies  fast  before, 
Its  lingering  shadow 

Floats  over  me  ;  — 
I  know  thy  shade,  Love, 

Do  I  know  thee  ? 

"  Rest  in  thy  dreaming, 

Child  divine ! 
What  grape-bloom  knoweth 

Its  fiery  wine? 
Only  the  sleeper 

No  sun  can  see ; 
He  that  doubtetb. 

Knows  not  me." 


SAMSON  AGONISTES. 
December  2,  1859. 

You  bound  and  made  your  sport  of  him,  Philistia! 

You  set  your  sons  at  him  to  flout  and  jeer; 
You  loaded  down  his  limbs  with  heavy  fetters ; 

Your  mildest  mercy  was  a  smiling  sneer. 

One  man  amidst  a  thousand  who  defied  him  — 
One    man    from    whom    his    awful    strength    had 

fled,— 

You   brought  him  out  to  lash  him  with  your  ven- 
geance, 
Ten  thousand  curses  on  one  hoary  head ! 

You  think   his  eyes  are  closed  and  blind  forever, 
Because  you  seared  them  to  this  mortal  day ; 

You  draw  a  longer  breath  of  exultation, 

Because  your  conqueror's  power  has  passed  away. 


SAMSON  AGONISTES.  181 

Oh,  fools  !   his  arms  are  round  your  temple-pillars ; 

Oh,  blind!  his  strength  divine  begins  to  wake;  — 
Hark !  the  great  roof-tree  trembles  from  its  centre, 

Hark  !  how  the  rafters  bend  and  swerve  and 
shake! 


f  "  THE  HARVEST  IS  PAST." 

Go,  dead  Summer,  o'er  the  seas  away ; 
Autumn  at  her  vespers  now  will  kneel  and  pray, 
Sunlit  vapors  on  the  mountains  stray, 
Red  grows  the  round  moon,  —  Summer  goes  away. 

Go,  dead  Summer !    the  birds  will  care, 

They  will  follow  on  the  soft  sea-air, 

While  the  south-wind  breathes  a  low  prayer, 

And  the  perfumed  pine-leaves  thy  shroud  prepare. 

Go,  dead  Summer!   go,  to  come  again. 
All  things  rise  but  madness   and  pain. 
New  green  grasses  flicker  on  the  plain, 
Only   a  lost  life  comes  not  again. 

One  dead  Summer  never  shall  return. 

In  its  ashes  no  red  embers  burn. 

Over  it  vainly  the  tired  soul  may  yearn. 

It  is  dead,  wept,  buried  :   how  can  it  return  ? 


BALLADS. 


BALLADS. 


ROSALIND. 

HIGH  on  the  hills  Lord   Heron  he  dwells, 
Rosalind  sings  on  the  moors  below, 

Faint  as  the  sea  in  its  singing  shells, 
Up  to  the  castle  her  soft  notes  go. 

Young  Lord  Heron  has  left  his  state, 
Donned  a  doublet  of  hodden-gray  ; 

Stolen  out  at  the  postern-gate, 

A  silly  shepherd,  to  wander  away. 

Rosalind  keeps  the  heart  of  a. child, 
Tender  and  gentle  and  true  is  she ; 

Colin  the  shepherd  is  comely  arid  mild, 
Tending  his  flocks  by  valley  and  lea, 

Never  shepherd  has  whispered  before 

Words  she  hears  at  the  close  of  day  :  — 


186  ROSALIND. 

"  Rose  of  roses,  I  love  thee  more  — 
More  than  the  tenderest  words  can  say. 

"  Though  I  seem  but  a  shepherd  lad, 
Down  from  a  stately  race  I  came; 

In  silks  and  jewels  I'll  have  thee  clad, 
And  Lady  of  Heron  shall  be  thy  name." 

Rosalind  blushed  a  rosy  red, 

Turned  as  pale  as  the  hawthorn's  blow, 
Folded  her  kirtle  over  her  head, 

And  sped  away  like  a  startled  doe. 

"  Rose  of  roses,  come  back  to  me  ! 

Leave  me  never ! "   Lord  Heron  cried,  — 
"  Never ! "  echoed  from  hill  and  lea, 

"  Never  ! "   the  lonely  cliffs  replied. 

Loud  he  mourned  a  year  and  a  day, 
But  Lady  Alice  was  fair  to  see ; 

The  bright  sun  blesses  his  bridal  day, 
And  the  castle-bells  ring  merrily. 

Over  the  moors,  like  a  rolling  knell, 
Rosalind  hears  them  slowly  peal ; 

Low   she  mourned  —  "I  loved   him   well,  — 
Better  I  loved  his  mortal  weal. 


ROSALIND.  187 

"  Rest,  Lord  Heron,  in  Alice's  arms, 

She  is  a  lady  of  high  degree; 
Rosalind  had  but  a  peasant's  charms, 

Ye  bad  rued  the  day  ye  wedded  me ! " 

Lord  Heron  he  dwells  in  the  castle  high, 
Rosalind  sleeps  on  the  moors  below. 

He  loved,  to  live  ;  and  she  loved,  to  die ; 
Which  loved  truest,  the  angels  know  ! 


FREMONT'S  RIDE. 

NIGHT  on  creek  and  rancho,  bound  in  sleep  we  lay, 
Dreaming  of  senoritas  and  maidens  far  away, 
The  heavy  tropic  moonlight  its  plates  of  silver  spread 
Over  Sonoma's  valleys,  and  the  gully's  rocky  bed. 

Through  the  dreams,  like  thunder,  came,  rolling  loud 
and  long 

At  the  gate  of  ranch  and  corral,  the  beat  of  knuckles 
strong : 

"Boys!  rouse  up !  they're  on  us.  Quick!  the  gate- 
way bends. 

Who's  out  there  ?  "  "  Americans  !  Open  the  .  gate 
to  friends." 

Through  the  portal  pouring,  eager,  hot,  and  grim, 
A   hundred    bearded   horsemen    stream    in    the    mid- 
night dim. 

First  and  least  and  greatest,  set  on  a  mustang  stout, 
The   leader   of  the   hundred,   the   chief  of  hunt   and 
scout. 


FREMONT'S  RIDE.  189 

Keen  as  sword  or  bullet  came  his  rapid  speech : 

"  Give   me   your   horses,  Senor !    the    Puebla  I  must 

reach  ! 
The  States  shall  pay  you  eagles.    Quick !  for  I  must 

be  gone, 
I'm   bound   to    see  Los  Angelos   before    six  days  are 

done  ! " 

"  But,  Senor  ! "  —  "  Quick,  the  horses  !     Los  Angelos 

is  far, 
Six   hundred   miles   of  mud   and   flood,  —  the   States 

have  gone  to  war. 
I  must  be   in   at   the  death-fight!     Oh,  I  shall  make 

good  speed ! " 
Away  went   the   pale   vaqueros  —  away   went   every 

steed. 

Gallop,  gallop,  gallop  !  over  stock  and  stone, 
Through  the  rocky  gully,  through  creeks  of  the  wild 

canon, 

Over  plain  and  valley,  past  the  lonely  ranch, 
Grazing   clumps  of  chapparal,  swimming    the   flooded 

branch. 

Dead  dropped  mare  and  mustang.     "  Off  with  saddle 

and  bit, — 
Mount  another,  and  forward  !    the  fight  is  raging  yet !  " 


190  FREMONT'S  RIDE. 

Through  San  Pablo  tearing  —  tearing  through   Mon- 
terey — 
Over  bluffs  and  prairies  gallop  the  mad  array. 

The   sixth   day  in   the   morning   they   reach   a   river 

wide  ; 

The  bravest  pause  before  it  —  Fremont  is  in  the  tide  ! 
Over,  over,  over !  follow  him  to  the  death  ! 
The  swollen   waves   roll   deeper,  and   two   are  swept 

beneath. 

Horse  and   rider   struggle  —  "  Forward !   the  brink  is 

won ! 
Ride,  ride   for   the    Puebla !    ride   lest  the   fight   be 

done ! " 
"  Hurrah !  Fremont   and  Freedom !   Los    Angelos  we 

sight ; 
Now  for    the    Mexican   devils!    now    for    a    bloody 

fight ! " 

So  the  sharp  tornado  whirls  from  a  swooping  cloud,  — 
So    comes   the   sudden   lightning  down  from  its  lurid 

shroud : 
One  rattling   shout   of  thunder,   then   to   the   thickest 

fight  — 
The    dying   plunge   and    quiver,   the   living   take  to 

flight. 


FREMONT'S  RIDE.  191 

They  shout  from  the   Presidio,  they  shout  across  the 

plain, 
And   the   great   heart  of  his  country  sends  back  the 

shout  again. 
Hurrah,   for   the    Prairie    Hunter !     Hurrah   for   the 

People's  Pride ! 
Hurrah !    Fremont  and   Freedom !      Hurrah   for   the 

hundred's  ride  ! 


BASILE   RENAUD. 

THE  summer  sun  bedecks  Anjou, 
The  harvest  lime  keeps  promise  true, 
And  I  have  kept  my  faith  with  you 

Basile  Renaud ! 

The  sun  forsakes  my  dungeon  walls, 
Across  the  fosse  no  shadow  falls, 
I  hear  no  answer  to  my  calls, 

Basile  Renaud! 

My  name  was  Clara  Madaillon. 

I  had  a  sister,  I  had  one 

Who  should  have  been  a  hooded  nun, 

That  made  us  three: 
Marie  and  I  dwelt  in  the  tower, 
But  Angelique  forsook  -her  dower, 
And  in  a  convent  made  her  bower, 

The  convent  of  St.  Brie. 

There  came  a  lover  to  our  lands, 
I  wove  my  hair  in  shining  bands 


BASILE  REXAUD.  193 

And  put  bright  jewels  on  my  hands, 

Basile  Eenaud ! 

You  looked  at  me  as  at  a  star, 
You  said  I  was  as  cold  and  far  ; 
I  laugh  now,  thinking  what  you  are, 

Basile  Renaud! 

He  gave  me  a  betrothal  ring, 

I  learned  for  him  to  smile  and  singr : 

O   * 

"  Proud  Clara,  have  you  found  your  king  ? " 

They  said  to  me. 
So  from  the  nuns  came  Angelique 
For  her  farewells ;  oh !   she  was  meek, 
With  yellow  tresses  down  her  cheek, 

And  blue  eyes  soft  to  see ! 

My  love  beheld  her  tender  face, 
Her  little  hands  and  gentle  grace,  — 
How  dared  you  give  her  my  right  place, 

Basile  Renaud? 
I  scoffed  at  her,  I  hated  him ; 
And  Marie  said  — "  His  eyes  are  dim ; 
Were't  me  —  "     So  ran  thy  requiem, 

Basile  Renaud ! 

We  took  our  counsel,  nor  would  show 
More  signs  of  vengeance  than  the  snow 

13 


194  BASILE  RENAUD. 

That  hides  a  traveller  far  below 

Its  shining  drift. 

The  winter  nights  came  on  too  fast, 
But  they  two  did  not  hear  the  blast 
That  howled,  and  howled,  and  shivered  past, 

And  muttered  in  the  rift. 

One  night  we  were  both  grave  and  gay, 

For  Angelique  had  gone  away, 

And  one  was  sad,  but  two  would  play, 

Basile  Renaud. 

The  firelight  flickered  in  the  hall, 
The  sconces  burned  with  torches  tall  ; 
I,  blinded,  hunted  to  the  wall 

Basile  Renaud. 

"  Will  you  be  hunter  ?  "  Marie  said  ; 
She  tied  the  kerchief  round  his  head ; 
I  had  a  knife  —  and  it  grew  red  — 

But  not  with  flame. 
His  brow  bent  down  upon  my  arm. 
I  laughed  to  see  the  working  charm. 
He  had  no  will  to  do  us  harm, 

Nor  breath  to  murmur  blame. 

They  haled  us  to  a  prison  high, 
Where  all  day  long  thick  shadows  lie, 


BASILE   RENAUD.  195 

And  in  broad  daylight  we  shall  die, 

Basile  Renaud ! 

But  I  had  vengeance  !    though  there  be 
Only  one  sister  left  of  three  — 
Angelique  in  the  nunnery  — 

Basile  Renaud! 


THE  DEATH   OF  TANKERFIELD. 

THE  death  of  holy  Tankerfield, 

That  martyr  of  the  Lord's, 
And  his  great  worth  I  do  set  forth 

As  seasonable  words. 

In  young  King  Edward's  blessed  time, 

A  Papist  vile  was  he ; 
Uncleansed  from  the  filthy  slime 

Of  vain  idolatry. 

But  when  it  pleased  the  Lord  most  high 

To  take  the  king  away, 
Unto  "his  everlasting  rest, 

To  be  with  him  alway,  — 

When  bloody  Mary's  reign  began, 

Wherein  the  flock  of  Christ 
Did  wander  through  the  valleys  low, 

And  stumble  in  the  mist,  — 


THE  DEATH  OF  TANKERFIELD.  197 

Then,  as  he  saw  what  cruel  pains 

From  men  they  did  endure, 
And  suffered  pangs  of  many  deaths 

To  make  their  glory  sure  — 

His  heart  was  moved  and  stirred  within 

To  see  their  evil  tide, 
And  that  foul  church  which  wrought  the  sin 

He  might  no  more  abide. 

But  turned  unto  the  sacred  Word, 

To  light  his  darksome  soul ; 
And  learned  to  leave  that  faith  abhorred 

That  would  his  mind  Control. 

And  did  hft  feeble  voice  uplift 

To  make  a  protest  bold,  — 
Renouncing  all  the  devil's  works, 

To  which  he  clave  of  old. 

Thereat  unto  his  house  there  came 

A  man  of  cruel  mind, 
By  name  one  Byrd,  who  thought  no  shame 

This  godly  youth  to  bind. 

Before  the  judge  they  haled  him  then, 
Who  sent  him  back  apace, 


198  THE  DEATH  OF  TANKEKFIELD. 

Unto  a  doleful  prison-cell, 
Where  he  remained  a  space. 

But  when  before  the  court  he  came, 

To  answer  for  his  faith, 
Of  Christ  the  Lord  he  was  not  shamed, 

But  owned  him  unto  death. 

So,  when  the  summer-tide  was  come, 
And  all  the  fields  were  green, 

And  flowers  upon  the  dewy  meads 
Were  joyful  to  be  seen, 

They  brought  him*  from  his  dungeon-cell 

Unto  a  certain  Inn, 
And  bade  him  to  remember  well 

The  wages  of  his  sin. 

For  that  he  never  more  should  see 

The  rising  of  the  sun. 
"  Then,"  with  a  cheerful  voice,  quoth  he, 

"  Good  Lord,  thy  will  be  done ! 

"  Now,  bring  me  here  a  cup  of  wine, 

Withal  a  wheaten  cake, 
To  keep  the  Supper  of  the  Lord, 

Ere  I  my  end  do  make. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TANKERFIELD.  199 

"I  may  not  have  a  minister 

To  break  this  bread  to  me, 
But  by  thy  passion,  gracious  Lord, 

Lay  not  the  sin  to  me ! 

"I  fain  would  keep  thy  feast  again 

Before  I  drink  it  new, 
To  aid  my  flesh  in  deathly  pain, 

And  keep  my  spirit  true." 

So,  giving  thanks,  he  took  the  bread, 

And  drank  the  sacred  wine, 
Which  now  in  heaven  he  doth  partake 

From  chalices  divine. 

Then  prayed  he  them  to  light  a  fire, 
That  he  his  strength  might  try ; 

The  host  did  grant  him  his  desire, 
And  stood  amazed  by: 

For,  lo !   he  stretched  his  naked  foot 

Into  the  scorching  flame, 
But  bone  and  sinew  quivering  shrank, 

And  loud  he  spake  in  pain :  — 

"Ho,  flesh!    them  wilt  not  gladly  burn, 
But  spirit  shall  endure ; 


200  THE  DEATH  OF  TANKERFIELD. 

Ho,  sense  !    thou  wouldst  from  glory  turn, 
But  soul  thou  shalt  make  sure  ! " 

Then,  as  the  time  drew  on  apace 

That  he  by  fire  should  die, 
He  kneeled  again  and  prayed  for  grace 

To  bear  his  agony. 

Then,  with  a  calm  and  pleasant  smile, 

Saith  he,  —  "  However  long 
The  day  may  seem,  yet  at  the  last 

It  rings  for  evensong." 

The  sheriffs  brought  him  to  a  green, 

Hard  by  the   abbey-wall, 
And  seeing  there  the  fagots  piled, 

They  spake  aloud  to  all. 

"  A  dinner  sharp  is  mine  to-day," 

Quoth  he,  with  joyful  faith, 
"  But  I  shall  sup  on  heavenly  cates, 

And  triumph  over  death." 

When  he  was  fettered  to  the  stake, 
They  heaped  the  pile  full  high, 

And  called  a  priest,  with  subtle  words 
To  shake  his  constancy. 


THE  DEATH  OF  TANKERFIELD.  201 

But  loudly  he  denied  the  mass 

And  all  the  works  of  Rome, 
So  might  not  Babylonish  tricks 

Delay  his  passage  home. 

A  certain  knight,  who  stood  thereby, 

Laid  hold  upon  his  hand. 
Quoth  he,  "  Good  brother  in  the  Lord, 

Be  strong  in  Christ,  and  stand." 

"  Oh,  sir  !  "  the  martyr  made  reply, 

"  I  give  you  thanks  indeed. 
May  God  be  lauded,  I  am  strong !  " 

With  that  they  bade  him  heed. 

And  set  the  fire  unto  the  pile : 

When,  as  the  flame  shot  high, 
Unto  the  strong  and  mighty  One 

He  powerfully  did  cry. 

Yea,  from  the  depths  uplifted  he 

A  cry  for  help  to  God, 
And  homeward  then,  on  fiery  wings, 

Right  joyfully  he  rode. 


WHITE  AND  RED. 

ROSES  and  daisies,  lovingly  they  grow, 
Redder  than  a  sunset,  milkier  than  snow ; 
Side  by  side  they  glitter  in  the  grasses  lithe, 
Side  by  side  they  wither,  swept  before  the  scythe. 

Down  in  the  valley  sits   Lina  at  her  wheel, 
While  along  the  mountains  twilight-shadows  steal, 
Singing  through  the  daylight  softly  as  a  bird, 
All  that   summer  whispers  in  her  song  you  heard. 

Night  came  on  like  morning,  cold  and  still  and 
gray, 

Over  Alpine  summits  a  threat  of  tempest  lay, 

Lina  stopped  her  singing,  and  trimmed  her  taper 
bright, 

Her  lover  on  the  mountains  watched  for  the  beacon- 
light. 

• 

•    All  night  long  she  waited,  listening  to  the  rain, 
That  muttered  in   the   fir-trees    and    rustled   on   the 
pane. 


WHITE   AND  RED.  203 

Shrieking  like  a  spirit,  the  morning  west-wind  blew, 
And  flickered  in  the   casement  the  watch-light  burn- 
ing true. 

Lina  to  the  threshold  turned  her  trembling  feet. 
Saints  in  heaven,  preserve  her,  such  a  sight  to  meet ! 
The  dead-white  face  before  her,  —  the  roaring  stream 

below. 
The  water-sprite,  at  dead  of  night,  had  wrought  her 

mortal  woe. 

Two  biers  to  the  chapel  bear  the  friars  gray, 
Over  two  pale  corpses  the  funeral  mass   they  say. 
Lina  and  her  lover  are  gathered  to  their  rest, — 
So  we  one  day  shall  pass  away,  and  live  among  the 
blest. 

Roses  and  daisies !  —  through  the  world  they  shine, 
Blood-red  blooms  of  sorrow,  dreams  of  peace  divine, 
Only  up  in  glory  the  quiet  angels  wear 
Wreaths  of  spotless  calmness,  lilies  pure  and  fair. 


FRONTIER    BALLADS. 


AFTER  THE   CAMANCHES. 

SADDLE,  saddle,  saddle ! 

Mount  and  gallop  away ! 
Over  the  dim  green  prairie, 

Straight  on  the  track  of  day. 
Spare  not  spur  for  mercy, 

Hurry  with  shout  and  thong, 
Fiery  and  tough  is  the  mustang, 

The  prairie  is  wide  and  long. 

Saddle,  saddle,  saddle  ! 

Leap  from  the  broken  door 
Where  the  brute  Camanche  entered 

And  the  white-foot  treads  no  more. 
The  hut  is  burned  to  ashes, 

There  are  dead  men  stark  outside, 
But  only  a  long  dark  ringlet 

Left  of  the  stolen  bride. 


AFTER  THE  CAMANCHES.  205 

Go,  like  the  east-wind's  howling ! 

Ride  with  death  behind. 
Stay  not  for  food  or  slumber, 

Till  the  thieving  wolves  ye  find  ! 
They  came  before  the  wedding, 

Swifter  than  prayer  or  priest; 
The  bridemen  danced  to  bullets, 

The  wild  dogs  ate  the  feast. 

Look  to  rifle  and  powder ! 

Fasten  the  knife-belt  sure  ; 
Loose  the  coil  of  the  lasso, 

Make  the  loop  secure ; 
Fold  the  flask  in  the  poncho, 

Fill  the  pouch  with  maize, 
And  ride  as  if  to-morrow 

Were  the  last  of  living  days ! 

Saddle,  saddle,  saddle ! 

Redden  spur  and  thong; 
Ride  like  the  mad  tornado, 

The  track  is  lonely  and  long. 
Spare  not  horse  nor  rider ; 

Fly  for  the  stolen  bride ; 
Bring  her  home  on  the  crupper, 

A  scalp  on  either  side ! 


LOST  ON  THE  PRAIRIE. 

OH,  my  baby,   my  child,  my  darling! 

Lost  and  gone  in  the  prairie  wild ; 
Mad  gray  wolves  from  the  forest  snarling, 

Snarling  for  thee,  my  little  child  ! 

Lost,  lost !  gone  forever ! 

Gay  snakes  rattled  and  charmed  and  sung; 
On  thy  head  the  sun's  fierce  fever, 

Dews  of  death  on  thy  white  lip  hung ! 

Dead  and  pale  in  the  moonlight's  glory, 
Cold  and  dead  by  the  black  oak-tree ; 

Only  a  small  shoe,  stained  and  gory, 

Blood-red,  tattered, —  comes  home  to  me. 

Over  the  grass  that  rolls,  like  ocean, 
On  and  on  to  the  blue,  bent  sky, 

Something  comes  with  a  hurried  motion, 
Something  calls  with  a  choking  cry, — 


LOST   ON  THE  PRAIRIE.  207 

"  Here,   here  !   not  dead,  but  living !  " 
God !   Thy  goodness  —  what  can  I  pray  ? 

Blessed  more  in  this  second  giving, 
Laid  in  happier  arms  to-day. 

Oh,  my  baby,   my  child?  my  darling ! 

Wolf  and  snake  and  the  lonely  tree 
Still  are  rustling,  hissing,  snarling ; 

Here's  my  baby  come  back  to  me ! 


III. 

• 

DONE  FOR. 

A  WEEK  ago  to-day,  when  red-haired  Sally 

Down  to  the  sugar-camp  came  to  see  me, 
I  saw  her  checked  frock  coming  down  the  valley, 

Far  as  anybody's  eyes  could  see. 
Now  I  sit  before  the  camp-fire, 

And  I  can't  see  the  pine-knots  blaze, 
Nor  Sally's  pretty  face  a-shining, 

Though  I  hear  the  good  words  she  says. 

A  week  ago  to-night  I  was  tired  and  lonely, 

Sally  was  gone  back  to  Mason's  fort, 
And  the  boys  by  the  sugar-kettles  left  me  only; 

They  were  hunting  coons  for  sport. 
By  there  snaked  a  painted  Pawnee, 

I  was  asleep  before  the  fire ; 
He  creased  my  two  eyes  with  his  hatchet, 

And  scalped  me  to  his  heart's  desire. 

There  they  found  me  on  the  dry  tussocks  lying, 
Bloody  and  cold  as  a  live  man  could  be ; 


DONE   FOR.  209 

• 
A  hoot-owl  on  the  branches  overhead  was  crying, 

Crying  murder  to  the  red  Pawnee. 
They  brought  me  to  the  camp-fire, 

They  washed  me  in  the  sweet  white  spring ; 
But  my  eyes  were  full  of  flashes, 

And  all  night  my  ears  would  sing. 

I  thought  I  was  a  hunter  on  the  prairie, 

But  they  saved  me  for  an  old  blind  dog ; 
When  the  hunting-grounds  are  cool  and  airy, 

I  shall  lie  here  like  a  helpless  log. 
I  can't  ride  the  little  wiry  pony, 

That  scrambles  over  hills  high  and  low ; 
I  can't  set  my  traps  for  the  cony, 

Or  bring  down  the  black  buffalo. 

I'm  no  better  than  a  rusty,  bursted  rifle, 

And  I  don't  see  signs  of  any  other  trail  ; 
Here  by  the  camp-fire  blaze  I  lie  and  stifle, 

And  hear  Jim  fill  the  kettles  with  his  pail. 
It's  no  use  groaning.     I  like  Sally, 

But  a  Digger  squaw  wouldn't  have  me  ! 
I  wish  they  hadn't  found  me  in  the  valley,  — 

It's  twice  dead  not  to  see ! 

14 


rv. 
BEE-HUNTING. 

WHEN  the  sky  is  red  and  hazy, 
And  the  winds  are  warm  and  lazy, 
And  the  blackbirds  chatter  crazy, 

Hurrah  for  the  forest  free  ! 
The  Summer  days  are  over, 
The  bees  have  sucked  the  clover, 
And  the  honey -birds  call  and  hover 

Over  the  hollow  tree. 

Catch  the  bee  where  you  find  him, 

Follow  on  straight  behind  him, 

Till  home  to  his  nest  you've  lined  him, 

Then  sing  for  the  match  and  axe. 
Gather  bark  from  the  birches, 
Moss  where  the  screech-owl  perches, 
And  when  the  fire  smokes  and  smirches, 

Chop  till  the  tree-trunk  cracks. 

Ho,  boys !    stand  from  under ! 
Hear  it  topple  and  thunder; 


BEE-HUNTING.  211 

Then  rush  in  for  the  plunder  ; 

Dripping  from  comb  and  chip ; 
Clear  as  sunlight  shining, 
It  drops  from  the  waxen  lining, 
Sugar  that  needs  no  fining, 

Fit  for  a  woman's  lip. 

Heap  it  in  pail  and  kettle, 
Never  go  off  with  a  little, 
Quick !  or  the  bees  will  settle 

On  something  beside  the  trees. 
Off  with  the  stolen  treasure  ! 
The  bears  may  take  their  pleasure, 
Where  we  have  left  good  measure 

For  them  and  the  drowsy  bees. 

When  the  sky  is  red  and  hazy, 
And  the  winds  are  warm  and  lazy, 
And  the  blackbirds  chatter  crazy, 

Hurrah  for  the  forest  free  ! 
The  Summer  days  <ire  over, 
But  we  get  the  best  of  the  clover, 
Where  the  honey-birds  call  and  hover: 

Out  of  a  hollow  tree : 


TRANSLATIONS. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

* 

THE  MOURNING  DOVE. 

(From  the  Hebrew.) 

ALAS  !   for  I  am  flying 

Through  deserts  lone  and  dreary, 
In  rocks  and  caverns  lying, 

With  downcast  soul  and  weary ; 
The  tempest  whirling  o'er  me, 

My  fluttering  wing  repelling, 
The  forest  spread  before  me, 

One  lonely  bough  my  dwelling. 

My  God  forsakes  the  altar 

Whereon  His  anger  burneth, 
And  where  my  weak  steps  falter, 

His  wrath  a  whirlwind  turneth ; 
I  pined  for  strange  caresses,  — 

For  aliens  madly  yearning 
Betrayed  the  hand  that  blesses, 

And  foes  beheld  my  turning. 


216  THE  MOURNING  DOVE. 

But  since  His  love  departed, 

Mine  eyes  have  failed  with  weeping, 
My  life  is  broken-hearted, 

Its  light  in  darkness*  sleeping. 
Better  the  grave's  dominion 

Than  thus  forsaken  flying, 
And  blessed  death's  shadowy  pinion 

To  souls  in  anguish  crying. 

Behold  the  bird-mates  greeting 

With  fond  and  tender  kisses, 
Where  hearts  caress,  and,  meeting, 

Find  Eden's  purest  blisses; 
Their  rest  is  fixed  forever, 

Deep  in  the  green  boughs  lying, 
Where  olive-branches  quiver, 

And  lilies  sweet  are  sighing. 

But  I  am  lost  and  weary, 

No  home  for  me  remaining; 
Among  the  cleft  rocks  dreary, 

With  briers  and  thorns  complaining. 
My  God  forsakes  the  altar 

Whereon  His  anger  burneth ; 
And  where  my  weak  steps  falter, 

His  wrath  a  whirlwind  turneth. 


THE  MOURNING  DOVE.  217 

Fierce  eagles,  sunward  turning, 

Scream  to  their  mates  at  even ; 
But  to  the  lone  dove  mourning, 

Nor  mate,  nor  home  is  given. 
Earth  with  their  rapine  groaneth, 

They  rest  in  peace  unheeding ; 
But  when  the  just  man  moaneth, 

The  heavens  refuse  his  pleading ! 

Return,  my  God !  my  glory ! 

Thou,  oh,  my  consolation ! 
Hear  Thou  the  fearful  story, 

And  rise  for  my  salvation. 
Unveil  Thy  love's  clear  shining, 

Above  mine  anguish  hover, 
And  when  I  lie  repining, 

My  sins  with  mercy  cover ! 

Thus  in  the  night  I  hearkened 

Grief  like  a  hushed  sea  swelling; 
Jehovah's  fear   hath  darkened 

On  every  human  dwelling. 
I  know  when  man  assaileth 

The  ear  of  heaven  with  moaning, 
That  mortal  courage  faileth, 

My  people's  heart  is  groaning! 


POUR  ELISE  FRISELL. 

(Chateaubriand.) 

THE   coffin  sinks,   and   sink   the  roses   white, 
A  father's  tribute  in  his  sorrowing  hour : 

Earth,  that  bore  both,  now   hiding  from  the  light, 
Young  girl,  young  flower ! 

Ah,  ne'er  return  them   to  this   world  profane  ! 

This  world  where  mourning,  anguish,  sorrow,  lower. 
Winds  bruise  and   scatter,  sunbeams  burn   and  stain, 

Young  girl,  young  flower ! 

Though  sleep'st,  poor  child,  unbowed  by  years  of  care, 
Fearing  the  task  and  heat  of  day  no  more ; 

Both  just  outlived  their  morning  fresh  and  fair, 
Young  girl,   young  flower ! 

Thy  father  bends  above  thy  last  repose, 

Pale  are  the  lines  that  mark  his  temples  hoar; 

Around  thy  root,  old  oak,  Time  ruthless  mows, 
Young  girl,  —  young  flower  ! 


LA  FLEUR  ET  LE  PAPILLON. 

(Victor  Hugo.) 

A  FLOWER  said  to  the  butterfly  of  heaven, 

Depart  no  more  ! 
Ah  !  see  what  diverse  fates  to  us  are  given,  — 

I  stand,  you  soar ! 

Yet  we  both  love,  and  far  from  mortals  dwelling 

Pass   the  bright  hours : 
Like  in  ourselves,  and  as  they  still  are  telling, 

We  both  are  flowers. 

Alas !   earth   chains  me,  thou  in  air  art  flying,  — 

Stern   destiny ! 
I  would  embalm   thy  flight   with  odorous   sighing, 

Breathed  through  the  sky. 

But  no !    thou  wanderest  far,  'mid  countless  flowers, 

On   pinions  fleet : 
I  watch  my  shadow  through  the   weary   hours 

Turn   at  my  feet. 


220  LA  FLEUB  ET  LE  PAPILLON. 

Thou  fliest,  then  returnest,  still  adorning 

Thy  various  spheres ; 
Still  finding   me  with  every  new-born  morning 

Bathed  in  my  tears. 

Oh!    that  our  love  may  still  be  true  and  tender, 

My  king  divine ! 
Take  root  as  I,  or  give  me  wings  of  splendor 

Like  unto  thine! 


LE  JUIF  ERRANT. 

(Stranger.) 

CHRISTIAN,  to  a  suffering  traveller 

Give  a  draught  of  water  at  thy  gate  ! 
I  am   he,  the  ever-wand'ring   Hebrew, 

Hurried  on  by  whirlwinds  to  my  fate. 
Never  older,   though  surviving  ages, 

Toward  the  world's  far  end  I  turn  mine  eyes, 
Every  night  I  hope  will  know   no  morrow, 

Every  morning  sees   the  sun  arise. 
Evermore 

Turns  the  earth   I   wander  o'er; 
Evermore,  evermore  ! 

Ah  !  for  eighteen  lingering  cycles, 

Over  silent   Greek  and  Roman   ashes, 

Over  ruins  of  a  thousand  kingdoms, 

Me  the   wild,  unsparing   whirlwind  dashes. 

I  have  seen  the  germ  of  virtue  fruitless, — 


222  LE  JUIF  ERRANT. 

I  have  seen  how  fruitful  ill  can  be, 
And  to  live  beyond  the  old  world's  glory, 
Two  new  worlds   arising  from  the  sea. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er; 
Evermore,  evermore  ! 

God  for  punishment   hath  changed  me. 

Love  to  all  that  die  my  worn  heart  bears. 
But  the    wretch  for  whom  a   home  is  smiling, 

Far  from  all  the  sudden   whirlwind   tears. 
Many  a  beggar  comes   with  eye  imploring 
For  the  boon  wherewith  alone  I  bless, 
Who  can  find  no  pause   to  grasp,  in   passing, 
Even   the   hand   I    long  in  his  to  press. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er; 
Evermore,  evermore ! 

Underneath  the  tree  in   blossom, 

On  the  turf,  or  where  cool  waves  rejoice, 
If  I  strive  to  soothe  my   lonely  anguish, 

Loud  I   hear  the   whirlwind's   raging  voice. 
Ah !    what  matters   it,  thou   angry  heaven, 

This  short  respite  snatched  from  wrath    divine  ? 
Is  then  all  eternity  sufficient 

To  repose  from  such  a  toil  as  mine  ? 


LE  JUIF   ERRANT.  223 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er; 
Evermore,  evermore ! 

Sometimes  bright  and  happy  children,  » 

Of  my  own,  retrace  the  imaged  forms ; 
If  the  sight  refresh   my  longing  vision, 

Lo  !  the  whirlwind  hurls  its  furious  storms. 
Ah  !  old  men,  what  price  untold  could  tempt  ye 

Me  to  envy  life's  unsetting  day  ? 
These  fair  children  whom  I  smile  in  greeting —    • 
Soon  my  feet  shall  brush  their  dust  away. 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore ! 

If  the  city  of  my  fathers 

Not  entirely  to  the  dust  has  gone, 
And  I  strive  to  linger  by  its  ruins, 

Still  the  fearful  whirlwind  thunders  "  On ! " 
"  On ! "  and  also  cries  that  voice  of  terror, 
"  Rest  remains  when  all  beside  shall  die. 
Do  not  they  who  sleep  among  thy  fathers 
In  their  tomb,  thy  place  of  rest  deny  ? " 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er ; 
Evermore,  evermore  ! 


224  LE  JUIF   ERRANT. 

I  outraged,  with  laugh  inhuman, 

Thine  expiring  pangs,  thou  Son  of  God ! 
Look  !  beneath  ray  feet  the  road  is   flying  — 
Hark !  the  whirlwind  hurries  me  abroad.  • 
.Ye  whose  hearts  to  charity  are  strangers, 

Tremble  at  the  awful  doom  I  bear. 
'Tis  not  God's  divine,  eternal  nature, 
'Tis  humanity  avenged  here! 

Evermore 

Turns  the  earth  I  wander  o'er; 
Evermore,  evermore! 


MAUDIT  PRINTEMPS. 

(Stranger.) 

I  SAW  her  through  my  window-pane 

All  Winter  smiling  at  her  own  ; 
Unknown  I  loved,  was  loved  again, 

And  kisses  crossed  that  both  had  thrown. 
Through  the  old  lime-trees'  branches  gray, 

Our  sole  delight,  fond  looks  to  turn ; 
But  now  between  us  leaves  will  play. 

Why,  hateful  Spring,  wilt  thou  return? 

Ah !  I  shall  lose  her  in  their  shade, 

The  lovely  angel  over  there  ! 
Who  fed  with  crumbs,  —  dear,  tender  maid ! 

Poor  birds  that  felt  the  frosty  air. 
She  calls  them,  and  the  cares  she  shows 

To  lovers'  silent  signals  turn. 
Ah  !  what  so  fair  as  Winter's  snows  ! 

Why,  hateful   Spring,  must  thou  return  ? 
15 


226  MAUDIT   PRIXTEMPS. 

Depart,  and  I  should  see  her  now, 

Rising,  when  sleep  has  passed  away, 
Fresh  as  they  paint  Aurora's  brow, 

Parting  the  curtains  of  the  day. 
And  still  my  lips  would  breathe  at  night, 

"  Alas !  my  star  has  ceased  to  burn ! 
She  sleeps  —  no  more  I  see  her  light." — 

Why,  hateful  Spring,  must  thou  return  ? 

I  pine  till  Winter  comes  again. 

Would  that  I  heard,  with  welcome  sound, 
Tinkling  against  the  window-pane, 

The  hailstones  rattle  and  rebound. 
If  all  thine  ancient  realm  were  mine, 

Thy  gales,  thy  flowers,  thy  warmth  I'd  spurn, 
Since  here  no  more  her  smiles  can  shine. 

Why,  hateful  Spring,  must  thou   return. 


LA   SYLPHIDE. 

(B^ranger.) 

E'EN  reason  is  not  always  wise, 

Her  torch-light  is  not  always  clear, 
For  your  existence  she  denies, 

Sylphs  !  charming  people  of  the  air  ! 
Thrusting  her  aegis  dull  aside, 

That  rested  on  my  curious  eyes, 
Lately  I  saw  a  sylphide  glide. 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities ! 

Your  cradles  are  the  roses'  breasts, 

Of  Zephyr  and  Aurora  born  ; 
And  in  your  brilliant  changes  rests 

The  secret  light  of  pleasure's  morn. 
Our  tears  ye  dry  with  gentle  breath, 

Ye  keep  unstained  the  azure  skies, 
My  sylphide's  charms  demand  my  faith, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities! 

Ah  !  well  I  knew  her  dwelling-place, 
When,  at  the  ball,  or  at  the  feast, 


228  LA  SYLPHIDE. 

I  saw  her  childish  form  of  grace 
Most  lovely  when  arrayed  the  least, 

A  ribbon  lost,  —  a  jewel  gone,  — 
More  fair  as  each  adornment  flies, 

Of  all  your  race  the  loveliest  one. 
Gay  sylphs,   be  my  divinities! 

She  adds  a  thousand  graces  new 

To  your  caprices  sweet  and  wild ; 
A  child  that's  spoiled,  perhaps  'tis  true, 

But  ah !  'tis  sylphs  have  spoiled  the  child. 
I  see  beneath  that  listless  air 

What  dreaming  love  dwells  in  her  eyes ; 
Ye  who  make  tender  hearts  your  care, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my  divinities ! 

But  in  her  gentle  childhood  dwells 

A  mind  arrayed  in  fairer  light 
Than  e'er  your  dream-enchanting  spells 

Threw  o'er  the  sleep  of  young  delight. 
From  sparkling  wit  aloft  she  springs 

And  bears  me  with  her  to  the  skies ;    ' 
Ye  who  possessed  her  borrowed  wings, 

Gay  sylphs,    be  my  divinities ! 

Ah  !  like  a  meteor's  rapid  train, 
Too  quickly  to  our  eyes  denied,  — 


LA  SYLPHIDE.  229 

Shall  I  behold  her  form  again  ? 

Perhaps  some  sylph  has  called  her  bride. 
No !   like  the  bees'  mysterious   queen, 

In  some  strange  land  her  empire  lies; 
Conduct  me  to  that  realm  serene, 

Gay  sylphs,  be  my   divinities  ! 


LA  MOUCHE. 

(B^ranger.) 

AMID  our  frolic  laughter's  sound, 

'Mid  tinkling  cups   and  music   gay, 
What  murmuring  insect   hovers  round 

Returning  when   'tis   chased  away  ? 
Some   Power,  I  think,  who  hovers   near, 

Jealous  of  bliss  it  can't  annoy ; 
Permit  it  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur  at  our  joy ! 

Transformed  into  a  hideous  fly, 

My  friends,  it  is  —  I  know  the  guest  — 
Reason,  that  scolding  deity, 

Enraged  at  such  a  joyous  feast  ! 
The   thunder  sounds,  the  storm   draws  near, 

Her  dark  frown  threatens   to   destroy  ; 
Permit  her  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur   at  our  joy ! 

'Tis  Reason,  whispering  low  to  me  ; 

"  Thy  years  should  calmer  pleasures  bring ; 


LA   MOUCHE.  231 

Cease  drinking,  laughter,  jollity, 

No  longer  love,  no  longer  sing!" 
Her  belfry  rings  its  peal  of  fear 

At  every  flame  of  sweet  alloy  ; 
Permit  her  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur  at  our  joy  ! 

'Tis  Reason  !  ah  !  beware,  Lisette  ! 

On  thee  she  longs  her  sting  to  prove : 
Ye  powers  !  in  that  fair  neck  'tis  set  — 

The  red  blood  springs,  haste  every  Love ! 
Pursue  the  wretch's  flight  of  fear, 

And  with  your  blows  her  life  destroy ; 
Permit  her  not  to  murmur  here, 

To  murmur  at  our  joy ! 

Triumph !  I  see  her  drowning  gasp 

Deep  in  the  cup  Lisette  hath  poured,  — 
Triumph !  to  Pleasure's  rightful  grasp 

Now  let  the  sceptre  be  restored ! 
A  zephyr  shakes  her  crown  with  fear, 

A  fly  can  all  our  peace  destroy,  — 
But  fear  no  more  its  murmurs  here, 

Its  murmurs  at  our  joy  ! 

THE   END. 


KF"  Any  Books  in  this  list  will  be  sent  free  of  postage,  on  receipt 
of  price. 

BOSTON,  135  WASHINGTON  STEEET, 
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by   TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  9 

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[POETRY.] 

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by   TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  11 


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12       A  Lift  of  Books  Publifhed 


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14       A  LiSt  of  Books  Publifhed 


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by   TlCKNOR    AND    FlELDS.  15 


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16       A  Lift  of  Books  Publifhed. 


Works    lately   Published. 

FAITHFUL  FOREVER.  By  Coventry  Palmore,  Author  of 
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CAKLYLE.    Containing  Memorials  of  the  Men  and  Events  of 

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SERMONS  PREACHED  IN   HARVARD   CHAPEL.     By  Rev. 

Dr.  Walker,  late  President  of  Harvard  University. 
THE  'COMPLETE  WORKS  OF  %WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOR. 

Library  Edition.    Revised  and  Edited  by  the  Author. 
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FAVORITE  AUTHORS  :  A  Companion  Book  of  Prose  and 

Poetry.     With  26  fine  Steel  Portraits. 

HESPERI A.    By  the  late  Richard  Henry  Wilde.     1  vol. 
HEROES  OF   EUROPE.     A  capital  Boy's  Book.     With  16 

Illustrations. 

BONNIE  SCOTLAND.    By  Grace  Greenwood.    Illustrated. 
THE  SEVEN  LITTLE  SISTERS,  who  live  in  the  Round  Ball 
•    that  floats  in  the  Air.    Illustrated. 


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